The Third Wizarding War: The Story of Miles Brand
by McJunker
Summary: The story of a Muggle-born criminal, a Pureblood supremacist, and an ex-Auror on the run during in the Third Wizarding War. Expect a lot of violence and some swearing. Mostly canon compliant.
1. Dramatis Personae

A/N: I previously started this same story, and then tried to go back and edit it, which I somehow screwed up, which necessitated me uploading it again. Anyway, this is the new and improved version, compete with quotes. Any reviews at all in how to improve are welcome.

Also: be sure to check out my Lord of the Rings/ Black Company crossover, located in my profile.

_"Goddamn them all, I was told/_  
_We'd cruise the seas for American gold./_  
_We'd fire no guns, shed no tears,/_  
_Now I'm a broken man on a Halifax Pier,/_  
_The last of Barret's Privateers."_  
-Stan Rogers

At the start of any play, you tell the audience who's who and what everybody wants. You know, these two simpering idots are the inamorati, or the young lovers- they're sweet, though stupid, and they love each other. This doddering old fool is Pantalone- he's rich, though a bastard, and he wants to keep the lovers apart. These colorful dope is Harlequin- he's smart, though bizarre, and he wants to help the young lovers. I have decided, possibly against my better judgement, to tell my story, so I choose to tell it the right way- these are the dramatis personae

There was obviously You-Know-Who, Whom You presumably Know about already. He is evil, though powerful, and he wants to rule magical Britain. There was a brief fad of calling him by his actual name, started by the late and lamented Albus Dumbledore. That fell out of fashion with Dumbledore's murder and stopped altogether with the implementation of the Taboo.

There was Harry Potter- The Chosen One, The Boy who Lived, and so on. He is noble, though scared, and he wants to stop You-Know-Who. In most stories told about the Third Wizarding War, he's the protagonist. I didn't see too much of him, except at the end, and since this is my story, he won't be figuring too prominently.

There was me- Miles Brand, former Auror. I'm- well, it's hard to classify yourself like that. You'll just have to learn what kind of character I am as you read along. I'm pureblood, and can trace my lineage back to the Roman occupation of Britain, though you couldn't call us in any way rich, not like the Potters or the Malfoys or the Blacks. I used to believe in blood superiority, though neither I nor any of my family ever supported You-Know-Who. We were quite gracious about the whole issue. Muggle-born and half-bloods were wizards too, it's not their fault they have impure genealogies. I used to believe in a lot of things I don't any more.

There was also Robert Wilson, a Muggle-born thug. He was ultraviolent, though loyal, and he wanted to kill all servants of the Dark Lord. He was a well-respected member of the criminal world before You-Know-Who came to power again- he was known to be a murderer, a smuggler, an arsonist, an extortionist, and who knows what else. He was also my friend. I should probably cross that out; he wasn't my friend, I hated him. Scratch that. I can't think of a way to express how I feel about Wilson.

There was Mortimer Solberry, a pure-blood supremacist. He was cowardly, though sadistic, and he wanted to torment the world, possibly in vengeance for being born. The best character note I can give for him is that his greatest fear was that You-Know-Who's supporters would capture him and torture him to death, and that his favorite past-time was torturing captured Death Eaters to death. He was my friend the same way Wilson was my friend.

Various Death Eaters, Aurors, innocent bystanders, Snatchers, Order of the Phoenix Members, and so on. With a few exceptions, they are minor characters.

I'm writing this, the shameful story of how I spent the Third Wizarding War, primarily because I'm sick of reading the stories they're making up about it now that it's been over for more than a decade. Some stupid wizard back in Britain wrote a radio drama based on the true story of Dumbledore's Army and the Battle of Hogwarts, where every fucking Gryffindor is Godric reborn and all the Death Eaters are slimy, despicable monsters; and every one of the good guys lives till the end except the one fictional character who wouldn't shut up about how she hoped her parents were safe; she died tragically, but nobly, and even got in a monologue before she died (although how anyone can wax dramatic after having been struck with the Killing Curse is beyond me). A Muggle-born witch in Scotland has written a _heavily _fictionalized series of books based on Harry Potter's childhood shenanigans at Hogwarts. I hear that former Minister Shacklebolt is in the midst of writing an autobiography, which promises to "tell the real story" of the Third Wizarding War. I'll bet my soul to peanuts that it will be a harrowing yet heartwarming tale of Resistance to Oppression, of the Power of Love over Death, and how we beat back the Tide of Evil.

Something in me won't let these stories go unbalanced. I have to let it out. Maybe it's a deep-seated need to confess the things I've done, and ordered done. Maybe I need the money from the book sales to maintain my life of indolence, and the market is already glutted with feel-good heroic tales. Maybe I want to see the smiles wiped off those bastards' faces when they hear that not everyone got through the war and remained one of the good guys.

Back when I was an Auror, before the Ministry fell, I got to talking to an Unspeakable. They were ordinarily a close-lipped bunch, but this one was chatty. He told me that stories are, in some sense, alive. Like wands, they are almost sentient, and like all sentient things, they want to survive and propagate. It's possible that my story is living inside me, and is insisting that spread it far and wide, like pollen. I don't know, and I don't care. Either way, I'm still all alone on a wonderful Caribbean beach, soaking up sunshine and sipping Firewhiskey, and ready to put quill to paper and let the world know the kind of person I am.

This is the story of Miles Brand, a man who fought for justice and failed utterly, who hoped for peace and left a wake of blood behind him. It's not pretty, it's not flattering, but it's what happened. Hey, there it is- my character. I am idealistic, though bloodstained, and I want to make the world right. Well, the source of all drama is watching someone try and fail, isn't it?

We shall begin in a Muggle house in the suburbs of London. There is a Stunned Death Eater named Frank Maison tied to a chair with conjured ropes in the living room, and there are two psychopaths and one mildy nauseated former Auror in the room with him. In the bedroom are the bodies of three innocent Muggles. Outside, on the dark streets of London, You-Know-Who is consolidating his power. Let us begin.


	2. The Fate of Frank Maison

_"If it be true (as it certainly is) that a man can feel exquisite happiness in skinning a cat, then the religious philosopher can only draw one of two deductions. He must either deny the existence of God, as all atheists do; or he must deny the present union between God and man, as all Christians do. The new theologians seem to think it a highly rationalistic solution to deny the cat."_  
- G. K. Chesterton.

Wilson and Solberry made sure the Frank Maison had the Mark before they started in on him. They respected me enough to do that, at least- they might not like me personally, but they knew that as long as I was calling the shots they would be safer. I had led them in three separate ambushes against Death Eaters, and we had survived all three. As Solberry put it, I was a useful fellow to have around. Making sure their victim wasn't Imperiused before they began was the least they could do for me. Wilson would claim it was Maison's problem if he didn't have the strength of will to resist the curse, and Solberry wouldn't have cared one way or another to start with. I can hear Maison screaming inside the house as I walked outside. They hadn't begun yet, but Maison knew what was coming. A small, detached part of me envisioned the look on Solberry's face, and was disgusted. I turned my back on the house and stared out on the street, as calm as I could be under the circumstances.

It was a freezing bloody day. It was almost noon, but you couldn't see the sun through the cloud cover. Looked like rain tonight, or maybe this afternoon. Swift winds pierced through my robes, and I felt relieved after the warmth of the house. I knew that soon the wind would make me uncomfortable, but for now I could enjoy it.

So. I had a quiet moment to myself for the first time in a while. It was either listen to Maison, or do a little introspection.

I lost my mother to childbirth when I was born. When I was 15, I lost my sister in the Second Wizarding War. A few weeks previously, I lost my job, my home, and my father. My job I lost when You-Know-Who took over the Ministry. I lost my home one day later when a squad of Ministry goons showed up at my front door to arrest me- apparently taking an early retirement so soon after the Dark Lord's coup was a little suspicious. I lost my father a day after that, when the Dark Mark tortured and murdered him for not knowing where to find me. Oh, the hell with it; this story needs no more telling. I'm sure you've experienced, read about, or heard about similar stories about the first days of You-Know-Who's reign. You know all about the desperation, the fear, the distrust that followed before everyone's loyalties were clear. _I've been chased out of the only home I've ever known,_ you think to yourself. _I'm hurt, hungry, still in shock. Death Eaters are after me even as I sit and rest. I need help. I shall go to my good friend John Smith's place. Surely he can help me._ But then the doubt sets in. _Didn't I hear Smith's father once talk about how he didn't approve of mudbloods in the Ministry? What if the Smiths support the Dark Lord? What if they turn me over to them the first chance they get? I can't go to them. I'll go to Jane Johnson's place instead. But wait! Jane Johnson and I aren't _that_ close. The second they show up at her door, the slightest pressure might crack her and I'd get sold out. Besides, just showing up at her door could be a death sentence for her._ Then, the heavy weight of despair slips over you as you realize that there is not one magical dwelling in all of Britain that you can go to. Dumbledore is dead. The Chosen One is missing, probably no better off than you are, probably hiding in some rat hole hoping that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named doesn't sniff him out. The Dark Lord is in charge now, and there are no safe havens from his wrath. There's no need for me to go on. By now, everyone reading this is nodding their heads.

My reverie was interrupted by Maison screaming again. He was without an ounce of dignity- a horrible mixture of agony and terror that hurt my heart to hear it. You might say, if you were the kind of person to express yourself poetically, that I had become an Auror so that I could keep anyone from screaming like that ever again. I heard Wilson laughing softly at him. I heard Solberry's muffled voice, and they both laughed this time. I consider going in the house and stopping those two, but I didn't. What would the point be? Maison was a confirmed Death Eater, he had the Mark. He had murdered and tortured and so on. In the bedroom of the house where we were lay three dead Muggles that he could almost certainly take credit for. Why shouldn't he die in agony? My two allies (at the time I certainly didn't think of them as my friends) wanted to indulge, so why stop them?

My allies. Wilson and Solberry. I knew each one by reputation before the Ministry fell- Wilson had been Undesirable #4, a smuggler and crime lord who was rumored to have connections with the Muggle world's organized crime. Once You-Know-Who took control, Wilson's days were numbered. The Dark Lord would never tolerate a Mudblood bandit holding the slightest bit of power under his rule. He was a man of about average height with short, dully brown hair. His one distingiushing feature was his physique, which by wizarding standards was overly extremely well-developed and could be intimidating at close range. I met him soon after I was on the run. We both picked the same hiding place and almost cursed each other apart before we sorted out that we were both fugitives. I could have raised a stink about traveling with a notorious crook, but I couldn't muster the righteousness necessary to ditch him. I was scared, and exhausted, and grateful to have a body I could trust to keep watch while I slept.

Solberry was a vocal advocate for any Anti-Muggle measures being passed through the Wizengamot. He got interviewed by the Daily Prophet any time a major controversial piece of legislature was passed or stopped. His basic position was that Muggles were subhuman wastes, that any wizard with the slightest taint of Muggle was suspect, and any pureblood who defended them was a traitor. I know more than a few Aurors in my section had him figured to be a supporter of You-Know-Who. Solberry was tall and lanky, pale and thin. His long black hair perpetually draped itself over his shoulders. Wilson and I met up with him a few days after we met, and the rest was history. I soon discovered they had a taste for cruelty- Solberry in particular had a nasty streak as long as there was no way for his victim to retaliate- but could not bring myself to rein them in entirely. _As long as they're aimed at the Dark Mark,_ I reasoned,_ it's not much of a problem. After all, didn't the Ministry authorize the use of the Unforgivable curses in the last war?_ Under my somewhat shaky leadership, we carried on, striking back at You-Know Who whenever we could do it without risk. After two small, one-sided fights, we tracked Maison down to this house where we caught him about to burn the place down. After we found the Muggle parents and their child, Frank Maison was doomed. After one quick confirmation that he had the Mark-

More screams pealed out from the house. It struck me suddenly that they were loud enough to attract attention from any passing Muggles. I cast a Silencing Charm over the house. The screams mercifully cut off. The wind picked up. It was going to be one cold bloody night. Even if it took a triple murder to get it, I was glad to have an empty house to stay in for the night. Damn it. I just realized that a spell over the house would attract every magical eye in the area. I envisioned hordes of Death Eaters converging on the place, wanting to know what was going on in this house that some wizard didn't want them to hear. I shuffled inside the house, my filthy brown robes clutched tight around me.

"Now, Miles, darling," Wilson drawled, "you know that I'm an artist at heart. I strive for aesthetic perfection in all I do, so I need your honest opinion. Don't hold back because you love me, your criticism makes me better. How's he looking?"

I took in Maison's condition out of the corner of my eye. It looked like Wilson had been using the Cutting Charm liberally on Maison's face. The Cutting Charm is considered to be more of a household tool than an actual weapon, but whatever works, apparently. "This man is far too loud. You jackanapes should've kept the noise down."

Solberry laughed. It sounded like an asthma attack. "That would be me. Turns out, this son of a bitch isn't as big a fan of the Cruciatus Curse when it's aimed at him. God alone knows what Bobby thinks he was doing with his little Charmwork, my methods work much better."

"Says you. Sure, the Cruciatus is painful as all hell, but once it's over, it's over. No consequences. But those cuts will stay with him for life, and he knows it. You have to take the long view, Mort."

I made my voice as harsh as I could. "I'm not fucking about, fellas. Either the Muggle Aurors will come investigate the screams-"

"They're called police."

"Thank you, Wilson. Either the police will come investigate or the Ministry will."

Wilson cocked his head. "Why would they?"

"Because I had to Silence the whole damn building to keep him silent. Every wizard around will want to find out what's happening in here."

Solberry sneered. "Stupid. We could have Silenced _him_, Brand. But you just had to give away our position."

"Didn't occur to me. Now come on, let's get out of here."

Maison recovered enough to look me in the eye. Behind the obvious fear and pain, it was clear he was thanking me. I'm no Legilimens, but I'm sure I could see hope in his eyes. Not that he would survive, but that his torment would cease. Or, alternatively, he was just glad that he wasn't being Crucio'd for the moment.

"Didn't occur to him, he says," Wilson laughed. "More like you wanted to panic us into killing him off quickly. Well done, you. We don't really have a choice anymore, do we? We have to leave in a hurry and there's no time for games." I could almost swear he was amused at what he thought was a clever ploy. I'd have pegged him as flying into a rage at being denied his fun, but it was almost like he was applauding me.

"That true, Brand? You really just screwed us over?"

"Yes. You can spend extra long with the next one for all I care, but in the meantime, get this one over with. I want to find a new place to stay before nightfall."

No sooner said than done. Wilson strode into the kitchen, picked up a steak knife and returned. I turn away as subtly as I could manage, but I knew they both saw it. I knew they considered it to be a sign of weakness, but the hell with them. Just because I wasn't a sick freak didn't mean I was weak. As I listened to Wilson work behind me, I tuned out Maison as best I could and allowed my gaze to fall on the mantle piece. There was a photo there. At first I thought there was something wrong with it- the Muggle family was standing stock still, smiling rigidly. Like they were paralyzed, trying to break free of their positions and move around, like they should be able to. After I figured out it wasn't supposed to move, it was significantly less creepy. The man and woman made a beautiful couple- their daughter had only been a toddler when the photograph was taken. I didn't want to check to bedroom again to work out how old she was now.

"Done." Wilson tossed the knife onto the floor and drew his wand again, and started to siphon the blood off off his clothes and hands and face.

"That was disgusting, Wilson. Absolutely disgusting. Only a damn Mudblood like you could think of killing a pureblooded wizard with a Muggle kitchen knife. It's bloody barbaric."

_"Bloody" is the right bloody word for it, alright,_ I was careful not to say.

"I tell you this, Solberry. For any wizard, the idea of violent death by Muggle means is scarier than Avada Kedavra. The concept of muscle strength driving bits of metal into your body rocks you more than any curse ever could. You spent your whole life on the watch for magical threats, yeah? You start to feel that the only way you'll ever be hurt is if you get outduelled, and then next thing you know you're hurt bad by a threat you never seriously considered before. Inversely, nothing would scare a Muggle more than a simple curse, for almost the same reason. When his Death Eater mates find him, they'll be far more disturbed by this mess than if I'd have left him in the hands of an inbred Squib like you."

I did my best to ignore their ill-natured bickering. They disgusted me, but I can handle that.


	3. They're Only Muggles

_"Nearly all men can stand adversity, but if you want to test a man's character, give him power."_  
-Abraham Lincoln

There is a well-publicized story about the early days of the Dark Lord's reign. The story goes that Harry Potter, Ron Weasley, and Hermione Granger had just escaped from a deathtrap of a wedding and were on the run. They were unaware of the Taboo, and they had picked up Dumbledore's habit of using the Dark Lord's name. The next thing they knew, two Death Eaters ambushed them. After a brief but terrifying fight, they managed to subdue them both. In an act that would define Harry Potter's character for the rest of the war, they decided to Obliviate them and leave them alive, despite the fact that they were literally in the middle of a war zone. They went on into hiding without spilling any blood they didn't have to, and the rest was ancient history.

I only heard this story after the war was over. The first thing that popped into my mind was, _How on earth did Harry Potter convince his friends not to kill them? _

We walked away into the steadily worsening night. I could tell tonight was going to be rough. Wilson and Solberry were on bad terms yet again, and wouldn't stop sniping at each other- the words "mudblood" and "wanna-be Death Eater" were used frequently. The verbal fight started when Solberry had wanted to burn the house down behind us and Wilson vetoed him. Wilson wanted his handiwork displayed for all to see, and wasn't about to let a pyromaniac take that away from him. We walked, and froze, and bitched, and kept a wary eye on any Muggle that passed us by.

Details are getting in the way of the story, to the point where you can't see the forest for the trees. I could keep on about how cold we were, how scared we were, how long we walked, but these details are unimportant. Only one thing of any significance occurred.

We were wandering through a seedier area of London, looking for an empty Muggle house to squat in for the night. After weeks on the run, none of us were eager to spend another night outdoors. We were careless, numbed by the wind and distracted by our search and we let our guard down.

Wilson stopped us abruptly. He looked around us, up toward the graffiti on the dirty walls. He then stared ahead of us, peering into the dark, and then twisted to look behind.

"Fuck," he breathed.

"What is it? It's cold enough to edit the anatomy of a brass gnome, Wilson! What's the problem?" Solberry's teeth chattered.

"Wands out, lads, we've got company."

Calm, controlled panic warmed me up. I drew my wand, nine and a half inches, elm, with a hippogriff heartstring core. Wilson and Solberry drew theirs as well. We circled around, back-to-back-to-back, our eyes probing the shadows around us. My Auror training kicked in- I could almost hear old Mad-Eye bellowing at me to be aware of my environment. We were on a narrow street with nondescript but grungy buildings surrounding us on two sides. I thought I could see what set Wilson's instincts flaring- it was a perfect ambush site, with only two entrances ahead and behind. A small squad of experienced wizards on either end could turn this space into a bloodbath for the poor bastards inside. And we were the poor bastards inside.

Solberry was swearing to himself over and over again.

"Miles." Solberry's voice shook. "Miles, we can run. Just Disapparate. No need to fight this one out. We can escape."

Wilson laughed as softly as he could. "You're pathetic, Morty. You can dish it out well enough, but you can't take it."

"Come on, Miles. Please. This is a fight we don't need."

"We can't Disapparate," I replied. "It could be far more dangerous to run than to fight. In the last War, the Ministry perfected an enchantment to reroute any Disapparations in a specified area. The idea was," I continued, still watching the street ends around me, "to set it up ahead of time to ambush the Death Eaters. We would fight them, they would decide to hightail it, they would Disapparate, and they would find themselves arriving in a secure room in the Ministry of Magic. Potter exploded You-Know-Who before we had a chance to implement it, but the enchantment is still there, intact. We have to assume that the Dark Lord's followers have access to it now."

"Oh, God," Solberry whispered. "We're dead."

"No, we just need to fight our way out of the area before trying to escape. We can do it, Mortimer."

Solberry whimpered. I suppose, looking back, that the contempt I felt for him at that moment was similar to the contempt he felt for me at Maison's death.

"They're coming," Wilson whispered.

"Which end?"

"North."

We swiveled, spread out, prepared ourselves.

Just imagine our surprise when, instead of a gang of Snatchers or a group of Death Eaters, we were confidently approached by a group of four swaggering Muggles.

"Evening, gents," one of the taller ones said. He seemed to be their leader. "Have you got a few quid on you?" The other three burst out laughing. I had a brief vision of a first year bully trying to intimidate a giantess.

Solberry burst out laughing too. His laughter was tinged with relief and anticipation.

"What are they carrying, Miles? What, metal clubs and tiny knives? Fucking _hell_." He continued to giggle to himself.

"I know," Wilson grinned ferociously. "And to think you were scared senseless."

"I wasn't scared. I was just excited to see some action."

"Of course you were, you inbred imbecile."

The Muggle gang had stopped laughing, and started fingering their pipes and knives nervously. This clearly wasn't how they had seen this going. They had only one chance left to survive the night, and that was to run now. Break into a sprint and hope Solberry had bad aim tonight. I still had a conscience at that time, so I spoke up.

"You kids better go on home. Now."

"We ain't afraid of you, old man. You dumb motherfuckers had better pay a-fucking-ttention." The Muggle drew something metallic and stubby from his left pocket and pointed it at Solberry. "You care to try your luck, sweetheart? Put your fucking wallets on the ground and get the fuck back."

"This stupid little Muggle sure does swear a lot, doesn't he?" Solberry twirled his wand.

"Hey, Morty. Want to see something really amazing?"

"What's that, Bobby?"

"Imperius."

The Muggle leader's eyes went vacant. I had been exposed to two of the three Unforgivable curses during training, and it always struck me that Imperius was the worst of the three. Anybody with a functioning pair of hands can kill, and as Robert Wilson could have happily explained to you, anyone with a sharpened bit of metal can torture. But only with the Imperius can you actually violate somebody's free will. It may not be as flashy as Avada Kedavra, nor as horrible as the Cruciatus, but as I saw it, only Imperius should be truly Unforgivable.

The metallic thing in the leader's hand jumped up and roared three times in rapid succession. The noise was incredible, like a some very small men were inside my ear using the Bludgeoning curse on my ear drum. The next thing I knew, I was kneeling on the concrete with my hands clasped over my ears. The Muggle street gang had been Transfigured into three corpses lying on the ground and one Imperiused man holding the smoking metallic thing. I could see Wilson's face, and it was obvious he was laughing his head off, but I couldn't hear him at first.

The leader then placed the smoking thing under his chin and the noise returned. I got treated to a sight that I never could have prepared for and can't forget, even now.

"That was unbelievable!" Solberry shouted. I winced. My ears hurt enough already without Solberry's bloodthirstiness ringing my head again. "Fantastic! What in the name of Merlin's balls was that thing?"

"It's called a gun," Wilson said. The son of a bitch looked like the cat who caught the canary. "It's like a wand that can only cast Avada Kedavra."

"I want one," Solberry declared, bustling towards the body. If the wound in the Muggle's head bothered him, he didn't show it. He scooped up the gun and examined it closely. "How does it work? I saw him pull this thing here..."

"That's the trigger. You pull the trigger, and a small metal ball called a bullet come out the end. It'll go faster than a Firebolt and anything it hits..."

"Oh, this is so wonderful. I can't wait to find some Death Eaters to try it on."

"You only have two shots left, mind you. It only shoots six times before you need to replace the bullets. Better check the body for more."

While they shamelessly looted the bodies, I stood quietly in the background, trying not to vomit. I had seen and cast some of the nastiest curses around, but the damage these fucking guns had wrought had caught me off-guard. Muggles pulled this off without any magic at all?

In the end, Solberry found twelve more bullets for his new gun, and Wilson found a wad of Muggle money that he said was about equal to twenty Galleons. He said we could find a room in a Muggle Hotel for the night.

In retrospect, I let Wilson and Solberry off rather easy for their slaughter of the clueless Muggle muggers. At the time, I justified it as self-defense and necessity, but looking back, I'm scared that I might have shrugged it off with a simple, _Hell with it. They're only Muggles._ I don't like to think that I did, but I might have. It's a struggle not to paint myself as being better or more righteous than I actually was.


	4. War Council

_"In preparing for battle I have always found that plans are useless, but planning is indispensable."_  
-Dwight Eisenhower

Unlike my flight from Brand Manor and my subsequent time spent on the run (which were experiences shared by many), strategy is not a concept many veterans of the Third Wizarding War are familiar with. Very few witches and wizards had any real plan beyond survival. It's well known that the Chosen One himself spent months just scrambling from one campsite to another, so I mean no offense by it. For some reason, possibly my Auror background, possibly the company I was keeping, I decided to have a firm strategy from the start.

Once we checked into the Muggle motel, I sat Wilson and Solberry down and insisted on a war council to work out where to go from here. Solberry threw a brief but spirited temper tantrum, and Wilson wasn't much better- they were both cold and tired and wanted to go to bed. I learned bombast and intimidation from the Mad-Eye Moody, and by sheer force of will and a few oratory tricks picked up from my time under that old battle-axe's tutelage, I browbeat them into submission. I was fagged too, but I wanted us to work out our plan while we still had an edge of fear on us. We sat around the two available beds in a ratty little room and we had ourselves a little strategy meeting.

"The way I see it," I began, "we have two basic strategies to choose from."

"Is there any chance at all we can flip a fucking coin?"

"Shut the _fuck _up, Wilson," I boomed. I heard Mad-Eye's advice echo from years ago, _Confidence, Miles. Confidence is what separates the alpha wolf from the cub. You show an overwhelming belief in yourself, and the other wolves will fall in line. _Rumour had it that old Mad-Eye died before the Ministry even fell, but reports were unclear. Until I actually saw the body, I was assuming he was alive. Maybe he was even having a war council of his own at the same moment as me. "The first strategy is that we keep our heads down. Find some nook or cranny in an unlikely place, dig ten feet straight down, jump in, and pull the hole in after us. We pull every evasive trick in the book- Transfigure our faces, Disillusionment charms, set up some subtle wards to give us advance warning of any Death Eater activity nearby, and wait this shitstorm out."

I paused to allow any comments they might have had. It was a waste of time. Wilson's face was as close to blank as he could get it, trying to give nothing away. Knowing what I know of him now, I would guess that he was trying to figure out what I wanted him to do, so he could work out how to best manipulate me. Robert Wilson's thought process revolved around power- how to take it, how to use it, and how to avoid being hurt by it. Solberry simply looked petulant because he wanted to rest.

"But I don't like that strategy. All three of us lost everything when You-Know-Who returned, and I for one am not going to back away from the fight." Faint interest creased Wilson's face. "I want to punish the Dark Lord for what he's done. I want to watch the sick bastard burn." Faint approval from Solberry. "But I can't. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is too powerful. I can't face him one on one, or even three on one, and have the slightest chance of winning."

"We know," said Solberry. "The Dark Lord is unkillable; everybody knows that. Even if you bushwhacked him from behind, he wouldn't die. I don't even think that Avada Kedavra could bring him down. Come to that, he did die once, and then he went and fucking walked it off. Fighting him is just a flashy way to commit suicide."

"We aren't the ones who have the power to kill him," Wilson chimed in. "We weren't Chosen. Potter was, and Potter's nowhere in sight."

"I know. The Dark Lord is untouchable, but his followers aren't. Death Eaters, collaboraters, Snatchers... they're all touchable."

Wilson smiled. He had an approximately average face, which in his former career must have been useful in all sorts of ways, but this smile contained so much cruelty and delight that it seemed to belong instead to some dark and terrible predator.

"Now, I know of a couple safe houses that the Order of the Phoenix set up. They saw this coming two years ago, and arranged it so that various members could get in contact with each if they were on the run."

"You're in the Order?" Solberry almost sounded accusatory.

"No. Until quite recently, my first loyalty was to the Ministry. The Order always struck me as too... I don't know... too secretive. Too shady."

"Untrustworthy."

"I don't like to put it that way, Wilson, but yes. I was never a Dumbledore man, you understand? Maybe I spent too much time believing those articles about him a few years back, but I could never bring myself to place much hope in him. Anyway, Alastor Moody told me that if everything went to hell, I could find safe haven in one of these places- Starbury Row, out in Wessex; 245 Raddlebuck street, here in London; or-"

"I'm glad we're all so enthralled to join up with the legendary Order of the Phoenix. But I would just like to ask- why would we want to?" Solberry cocked his head and stared at me. Was he trying to intimidate me?

"They are a highly organized, dedicated group of trained warlocks trying to help the Dark Lord's enemies," I answered carefully. There was a tension in the air that I hadn't caught before. Was Solberry challenging me? Or just complaining? "What, precisely, is your objection?"

"Unlike you, Miles, I was around for the last war. The Order failed completely in every way. You see, they wouldn't resort to violence, you understand? They would fight with restraint, they would try to _capture _Death Eaters and then the Ministry would _try _them and then send them to _Azkaban_. Every fight they got into, one or two Order members would die and they'd capture one or two Death Eaters, and a month later those Death Eaters would be back on the streets. They couldn't comprehend how fucking stupid they were. Not all of Dumbledore's wisdom nor all the Aurors in the world could stop the Dark Lord, but they would sit around congratulating themselves on how _noble _they were. God, they disgust me. They sat there like targets at a Duelling Academy and the Dark Lord swatted them down like flies, one by one, and it never even occurred to them to _fight back. _If it wasn't for that complete fluke at Godric's Hollow near the end, they'd have died to a man, and good riddance to the stupid bastards." Solberry took a deep breath, let it out. I guessed he had been running that rant in his head for some time. Wilson was gazing at him, his face studiously blank. "So no, Miles. No, I want nothing to do with those stupid, self-righteous, hypocritical fools. If we fight the Dark Lord, we fight it your way. Hit them from ambush, without warning, without mercy, and without giving them second chances. And we fight it our way, me and Wilson's way. You fight fire with fire. You swap atrocity for atrocity. They burn down a dissenter's house? We burn down a couple of Snatchers. They capture a group of fugitives and, uh, Cruciate them into insanity? We hunt down a Death Eater gang and return the favor."

Wilson cracked a small smile. "Big words from you, Mortimer. We saw how you were pissing yourself at the thought of fighting before."

Solberry's long, pale face flushed red. "I can't help getting nervous, but you know I can hold my own. Brand," he said, appealing to me, "you've seen me in action. Did I run? Disapparate? Curl up and surrender? No, I stood and fought."

"Of course you did, Solberry. I understand why you don't support the Order, but we should at least try to get in contact with them." _Maybe we'll even meet up with Mad-Eye_, I didn't add. I did not want to admit that Solberry's style of warfare appealed to me far more than the if-you-kill-them-you'll-be-just-like-them school of fighting. I decided not to bring up the point. "We can maybe get a secure headquarters we can operate from, we can get regular meals, we can recieve intelligence."

"We can hear sermons about not fighting dirty," Solberry muttered. I pretended not to hear him.

"In the morning, we head out to Starbury Row. I don't want to spend much more time in London, we've been far too active here for my liking. Any problems with this plan?"

Solberry opened his mouth to argue some more.

"Shut up, Mortimer. Now let's go to bed. You two take the beds, I'll conjure up a sleeping bag and a pillow. First one who starts snoring gets hexed."

That earned me a chuckle from both of them. As we conjured up some pajamas and got under the covers, I reflected that the meeting hadn't gone too badly at all.


	5. Getting There

"_Nothing is easier than to denounce the evildoer; nothing is more difficult than to understand him."  
_-Fyodor Dostoevsky

I didn't sleep well that night, I remember that much. Nightmares plagued me. I had the unpleasant experience of waking up every five minutes, then falling asleep again into the same dream. The effect was surreal- for most of the night and into the morning I could not tell if I being hunted by unspeakable horrors and kept dreaming I was in bed or if I was in bed dreaming of the monsters.

I was the first one up. My eyes felt like they'd been gouged out and clumsily replaced. I Vanished my sleeping bag and padded silently into the bathroom, where I splashed water into my eyes. It did not seem to help at all- in fact, they hurt worse. I stretched as high as I could, and was rewarded with a delightful series of cracks from my spine. As I Conjured up some a toothbrush and paste, my mind wandered back to last night.

Solberry had been pretty eager to fight the Dark Mark. I wondered that I did not catch the inconsistency before, but I supposed exhaustion dulled my senses. Since when did Mortimer Solberry, the self-acclaimed pure-blood supremacist, who probably would have gotten a Mark of his own if things had turned out differently, actively care about fighting evil? Up till now I had assumed that Solberry had stuck with us to stay safe and hurt people he didn't like, but last night he sounded like a crusader against the Dark Arts. Looking back, I think I thought of him as a one dimensional stage play villain- a giggling psychopath who loves his torture and his murder and has not a single trait more to him than that. I think I forgot to take into account that people act for reasons unknowable, and that not even they always understand why they do what they do. I forgot to take into account that Solberry was an actual person. A deeply screwed-up, highly dangerous person, but a human being nonetheless.

I spat out the foamy toothpaste, watched idly as it dissipated after landing in the sink. First rule of Conjuring- when you're done with what you Conjure, you send it back immediately. I used my wand to style my light brown hair out of its bedraggled current state. In those days, I wore my hair a little longer than what was fashionable, and had to charm it out of my eyes every morning.

After consulting with my time piece, I decided that it was about time to wake up my partners so we could all get ready. Then I spent another five minutes sleeking back and restyling my hair, first twisting it up into a wild, tangled mane, then sleeking it back, then restarting the process. Then I brushed my teeth, and spent another five minutes staring into my reflection's eyes. I expected them to look haunted or gaunt or spiritually deranged or something, but they looked alright to me, except for the dark circles under them. Either I was completely fine with spending time with murderers and criminals, or I was very good at hiding it. I realized I was stalling. I did not want to start today. I knew it would be filled with more fear and distrust and aggression and right now I did not want any part of it. My words came back to me- _"__I for one am not going to back away from the fight." _I couldn't conjure up any of the fire I had last night. I just wanted to go back to sleep and embrace oblivion.

Part of me, the bit that Mad-Eye had cultivated, insisted that I get started.

I exited the loo and got my allies up and running. One hour later we were all awake, dressed in our raggedy robes, and ready for breakfast, since we had missed enough meals in the last few weeks to not want to start anything without food in our bellies. Wilson asked the Muggle downstairs who appeared to run the establishment where we could get a bite to eat, and we ended up at a nearby restaurant, I don't recall the name. I had some pretty decent pancakes drowned in syrup, Wilson had waffles drowned in butter and syrup, and Solberry spent ten minutes asking the waitress what each item on the menu consisted of, annoying the hell out of her and us alike, before settling on eggs and ham. We talked while we ate.

"I assume that we will not simply be able to walk up to the Order's safe house," Wilson was saying. "They will have constructed wards and other defenses to prevent non-Order members out, yes?"

"If they have the brains, which I doubt," Solberry piped up cheerfully. He was in a better mood today. Eating well after an involuntary fast will always put you in a better mood.

"Yes, I'm pretty sure they have a system set up."

"So, did Moody tell you the secret password, or what? Are we just going to walk up to the front door and ask politely, what's the plan here?"

"Moody gave me the location, and told me if I was on the run I could go to Starbury Row. I believe that if we can get in contact with them and prove I was a friend of Moody's, I can get us in."

Solberry guffawed. "So, we'll be asking politely then."

"Basically. Keep in mind; these are decent people- they genuinely want to help others. They are suitably cautious, but they want to believe the best about people. As long as neither of you tortures anybody right in front of them, or start shouting 'All hail the Dark Lord!' we'll be fine."

After we left the restaurant, we made our way off the main streets, to an isolated location where we could depart in privacy. Halfway there-

"Oh! Fuck! Be right back!" With a small pop, Solberry Disapparated, leaving Wilson and I alone and confused.

"Did he just abandon us?"

I shrugged. "I don't think so. I didn't get the impression he was leaving for good."

"The more time I spend with that man, the more I dislike him. Would it have killed him to tell us what he's doing?"

I shrugged once more. What could I say? "Tell me, Bobby. Are you as pissed at the Order as Solberry is?"

"Ha! That _was _quite a speech he made last night, wasn't it? Listening to that little rant, you'd have never guessed he was a Blackrobe in the last war."

"Blackrobe?"

"It's, ah, criminal jargon. It means someone who supported the Dark Lord's agenda but never joined up. The Death Tasters, they were also called. The way I hear it, Mortimer Solberry was pretty active in Belfast in the 70's, targeting mainly Muggles. There's also a rumour that he was peripherally involved in the murder of Marlene McKinnon, although I doubt if he actually cast the spell himself. Of course," he continued, with a certain edge to his voice, "the Ministry couldn't be bothered to put a stop to him. Not when good wizarding stock was dying left and right here in England."

"We didn't know," I told him quietly. "We- the Aurors- we knew he was fanatically Pureblood, and maybe even a supporter, but we never heard he acted on it. We'd have stopped him if we'd known."

"Yes, of course you would've. I'm sure Fudge would have jumped all over the chance to arrest an upstanding member of the Pureblood elite, and that not all of his wealth and influence would have helped him."

"What are you complaining about? Didn't you have half the members of the Wizengamot on your payroll?"

"That's different. I simply smoothed out the process of free trade by giving liberal gifts to those in power. My money was all honest bribes, do you understand? It was just business. But Solberry and his kind... That's not business. That's just throwing money at the justice system until it doesn't apply to them anymore. It's not the same at all."

I couldn't quite grasp the subtle difference between them, but I decided not to make an issue of it.

"So you figure he was lying, then? About wanting to fight?"

"No, he sounded sincere to me, and I'm a hard man to lie to. I don't know why he's so fired up. You could ask him if you like."

"I don't really care, so long as he doesn't switch sides in the middle of a fight."

It wasn't until much later that I realized that Wilson never answered my original question.

Another small pop announced Solberry's return.

"Can you believe I almost forgot this!" he announced, grinning proudly, brandishing his new gun in the air.

"Oi! Put that away!" Wilson hissed. "Guns are not fucking allowed in the Muggle world; you'll have somebody calling the police!"

"Fuck, sorry," Solberry stage-whispered. He slipped the gun into a pocket in his robe, giggling quietly. "Left it right on the dresser, can you believe? Had to Obliviate the maid. So, are we ready to get going?"

We were. We found a backstreet with no Muggles around and Apparated to Starbury Row.


	6. The Battle for Starbury Row

_"The art of war is simple enough. Find out where your enemy is. Get at him as soon as you can. Strike him as hard as you can, and keep moving on."_  
- Ulysses S. Grant

Dueling, in the classic sense of two wizards formally trying to kill each other one on one, had been outlawed in Britain for centuries. Any would-be duelists who broke that law would get six months in Azkaban if they were caught, or five years if they succeeded in slaying their opponent. However, there was a loophole in the law; dueling to the first strike, or to the yield, was considered to be legal- you would have to prove that there was intent to kill to make it a crime. Incidentally, this resulted in the Barbantio school of dueling, which emphasized speed and precision, and disregarded powerful spells as being too exhausting; since a small Stinging hex to the left foot would win the duel, why use slower, heavier hitting spells that might get you thrown in prison? However, dueling had been a popular past time in Britain for too long, and many considered it to be a spectator sport. People love to see blood on the floor, and back when Wilson was a bigshot mobster he was happy to oblige them for a fee. He had run an unlicensed dueling ring in the heart of Knockturn Alley. Warlocks would sling spells at each other while the bookies took bets and the mob screamed for blood, and if someone died, well, they knew the risks when they signed up. It was technically illegal, but Wilson had been paid up with the right people and we Aurors had more important things to focus on. The upshot of all this is, Wilson recognized the head Death Eater as Julian Greengrass.

Julian Greengrass was one of the most dangerous duelists in the country. When he retired some eight months before, he had 17 wins, 2 loses, and 2 ties, which was a phenomenal record for such a profession. I have no idea why he took the Mark- was he a pure-blood supremacist? Was he merely addicted to fighting and killing? Did he prefer to stand by the Devil than stand in his path? I don't know. I never knew the man, and his mind is a mystery to me. But what I do know is that he was the Death Eater that had been charged with burning Starbury Row to the ground.

We had Apparated a hundred yards south of a battle that raged around a massive tower, about hundred feet high and fifteen feet wide, with a lot of windows studded in seemingly random locations. It was an improbable building, giving the laws of physics only passing acknowledgement. It looked a little like a stone river flowing straight up into the sky, the curves of the river meandering wildly. I spent most of my working life in London and other Muggle cities, so I was used to mundane architecture. I will never understand why the old magical builders insisted on designing buildings that look like they might collapse at any second, unless it was just to differentiate themselves from Muggle architects. From the half-second I had to observe it, the fight was pretty one-sided, with twenty or so Death Eaters fighting it out with a half dozen wizards I couldn't recognize from that distance. The half dozen good guys were trying to retreat into the tower without turning their backs.

The moment we popped into being, Wilson got hit in the stomach with a stray curse, which knocked him flat on his back before he could process what happened. Solberry shrieked and hit the ground, I took in the situation and followed him soon after, and I could hear Wilson mutter to himself, "Well, fuck. Where did that come from?"

The Death Eaters hadn't seen us come in- they were focused entirely on swamping the Order with a storm of deadly curses. I levitated Wilson off to the side of the road we had Apparated into, got Solberry over to join us in the tall grass.

"They really going at it over there," Solberry gasped.

"Keep an eye on them over there. Let me know how it going while I try to fix up Wilson."

Wilson was biting down on his screams, his abdominal muscles were clenched up, and sweat was streaming down his face. "Fuck," he said. He almost sounded more confused than hurt. "Fuck, this hurts. What happened?"

"Starbury Row isn't as safe as advertised- we waltzed right into the middle of a fight."

"Ah," Wilson gasped. "Stray shot?"

"Yes. Almost certainly from one of our guys, too."

"Hey," Solberry interjected. "They're inside. The Death Eaters don't seem to know how to break inside."

"Did they all make it?"

"I think all five got inside, but one of them might be missing a hand. I couldn't see clearly from this far away, but I think one of them got-"

"All five? There were six when I counted."

"I only saw five go in. Ha! One of the Death Eaters just got killed. One of those Order fellows popped their wand out of a window then took his head off. I'm glad to see they're finally playing for keeps. The Death Eaters are retreating to safer ground."

"If you wouldn't mind," Wilson interrupted. "Can we focus on the fact that I have a curse burning its way through my stomach?"

Based on Wilson's descriptions of the curse's effects- a burning sensation around where the spell hit, nausea, and feeling like a tree's roots were growing outward from the area- Solberry identified it as the Malattio Curse, which saps magical power, can cause insanity over time, and is usually fatal if left untreated. Between the two of us we had enough power and know-how to counter it and stop its progress through Wilson's body, but he wasn't going to be able to do much for a while. Magical exhaustion is not something you can simply fix with a wave of your wand, regrettably.

Ahead of us, the Death Eaters were flinging every spell they could think of into every window they could, in hopes of catching one of the Order members in the blasts. After they received no response from the defenders within, they advanced with their Shield charms up, and spread out so that no blast could take out more than one. When they got close enough, the defenders unleashed a barrage of spells drove the Death Eaters back into their original position, leaving one dead and two more burned badly. As far as I could tell, no defenders were hit. They would pop out of one window, cast their spells, duck back in, and switch to another window to repeat the process, and it certainly worked for them.

"They're not doing so badly, are they?" Solberry mused. He was lying on his belly, almost invisible in the overgrown grass, watching the battle. "I bet you anything those boys in there are from the old pureblood families. Stands to reason. I bet you that Dumbledore saw what a shambles that the Muggle-borns made of the last war, and filled out his ranks with actually competent wizards."

"Will you," Wilson asked, "please shut your fucking mouth?"

"It's been proven that Muggle-borns intrinsically have less magical ability than purebloods. Seriously, they've done tests and everything."

"Those tests were made by the Malfoy family, you stupid son of a bitch. They're hardly the most objective of sources, you ignorant, arrogant little pissant."

"Well, you're a mudblood, you're fairly biased yourself."

They continued to bicker as the Death Eaters set up a series of wards around Starbury Row, so that the Order members couldn't slip out unnoticed. I presume they had already set up the Anti-Apparition jinx, or the Rerouting Spell the Ministry had developed.

The head Death Eater, Julian Greengrass (though Wilson hadn't identified him yet), must have decided that 18 against 6 weren't good enough odds for him, because we witnessed another five blackrobed figures soon Apparated in and started helping with the wards. In my professional opinion, a determined rush of over twenty fighters could crack them. They would take casualties doing it, but since when does the Dark Lord care about that?

Darkness fell. They weren't attacking, despite their advantage in numbers. Solberry wondered aloud why the Death Eaters were taking so long.

"Strategy," I said. "A night attack is always confusing, unless you have a good light source, and anyone who lights themselves up tonight would make a pretty good target. Plus, they've just fought a battle- they're tired. Your side gets a good night's sleep, and the other side gets to stay up all night worrying about when the attack is coming. Then, at dawn-"

"-right when the defenders are falling asleep-" Wilson chimed in.

"-you swarm them."

Solberry nodded to himself. "So the question is," he said, "do we take an active role in the proceedings, or what?"

"We probably can't save the people inside Starbury Row," Wilson said. "If we get involved, we can only bring the Dark Mark down on our own heads."

"That's true. They're dead. We're not. We should move on." They glanced at each other, each wanting to speak up but not wanting to be the first.

"But?" I asked them, looking them in the eye one after the other.

"But let's take our best shot," Solberry whispered. I couldn't see his eyes in the dark, but his voice was shaky. I don't think Solberry ever got used to the idea of fighting. He'd do alright once he was in the middle of it, and of course he was great at fighting when the other guy can't fight back, but he just couldn't get a handle on the idea of getting hurt.

"They don't know we're here," Wilson observed. He was propped up on a particularly thick clump of weeds. He looked like he just ran a marathon. Twice. On his hand and knees. "We can cut them up and pick them off all night long, can't we?"

"We can," I told him, eyeing him critically. "You can't. You look like you're knocking on Death's door, Wilson. Solberry and I can handle it tonight."

"And I just stay put and hope like hell you two don't fuck it up, right? Because if you two die, I'll be helpless. If I'm lucky I'll just starve to death. If I'm unlucky, they'll find me and flay me alive."

Solberry shivered involuntarily.

"Then we'll just have to stay alive, won't we?"

"Goddamn it. I fucking refuse to be helpless."

I shugged. What was I suppose to do about it?

Wilson sighed, then asked Solberry for the gun. Solberry paused, one eyebrow raised.

"If it comes to shooting," Wilson said, "that means you fucked up big time and you're dead with or without it. If you two don't come back, I'll be able to fend for myself."

Before we left, Solberry and I Disillusioned ourselves and cast Silencing spells on our shoes. If we were going to use the element of surprise, we were going to use it all the way. After I taught him the proper spell, we enchanted our left hands so that anything written on his will appear on mine, and vice versa. Throughout the night, it would be our only way of communicating with each other, since we would not be able to see each other and would not dare to speak aloud.

My left palm started itching, and I looked down at it.

**Testing. Is it working?**

I pointed my wand at my own hand, erased his message, and wrote back: _**You tell me.**_

His response was a simple: **I'll grab your shoulder, then we go.**

The moment I felt his hand on me, we started down the path the Starbury Row.

The Death Eaters were remarkably careless. The only precautions they took were against the possibility of an attack from the doomed Order members, and they were completely exposed on the outside. Granted, as far as they knew all their enemies were indoors, but it was still sloppy of them. They were far too confident; even if you're trying to rest up, you make sure you're safe before you go to bed. Otherwise two vengeful warlocks might come into your camp and start decimating you.

They had set up a tent to serve as a makeshift barracks. We figured that the bulk of the enemy forces were in there, vulnerable in their sleep, but we didn't want to start in there until the Death Eaters on guard were taken care of. We were just near the entrance when my palm itched again: **Only 3 guards- 2 ahead, 1 by** **the **and it ran out of hand. It erased, and continued: **1 by the tent. I take tent, you take others? **I wrote back: _**Meet right here when done.**_

My first guard was easy. I got into position behind him, whispered "Incarcerus," and a strong, thin rope curled around the Death Eater's throat and tightened. He never had a chance to cry out. The second died when I snuck up behind him and blasted the back of his head open with the Bludgeoning hex; the effect was disquietingly similar to the Muggle thug who was forced to shoot himself. When he struck the ground his mask was dislodged and I got to see who it was I killed. He was a young, blond man with handsome features. He didn't look like he had left Hogwarts too long ago. His eyes were unfocused, gazing sedately up into the night sky. I didn't recognize him.

I wrote into my palm: _**2 down. **_The reply: **I'm done too.**

We rendezvoused by the tent entrance again, and slipped inside. We were invisible, completely Silenced, careful and alert. We were as close to undetectable as magic and caution could make us. If we hadn't tripped the alarm spell on the tent flap, which awoke Julian Greengrass and all his fighters, our operation would have been an unqualified success.


	7. First Blood Spilt

A/N: This one gets a little bloody. I assume if you're on chapter seven by now you're fine with a spot of ultraviolence, but you've got fair warning.

_"Mistakes are a part of being human. Appreciate your mistakes for what they are: precious life lessons that can only be learned the hard way. Unless it's a fatal mistake, which, at least, others can learn from."_  
-Al Franken

Solberry and I both knew, I through training and he through pure animal instinct, that a single misstep would likely kill us both, so we stalked accordingly through the tent flap. The interior was shrouded in an impenetrable darkness, and the walls thrummed slightly with the magical energy that made it larger on the inside than on the out. I didn't like it. There was no reason for the tent to be so dark; they would want it well lit if they were sleeping in it, wouldn't they?

I messaged, _**Nervous!**_ to Solberry. He never got a chance to reply.

I'm fairly certain the ward was triggered by our magical signitures, because I felt a flare start up deep within myself when a powerful light appeared and blazed so hard I thought I might actually lose sight. I cursed loudly and jammed my palms into my eye sockets trying to blot out the impossible brightness and it wasn't working. The light could seep through my hands and lids and slam into my sockets, feeling like someone like Solberry was jamming needles into my eyes. I could sense rather than feel our Disillusionment charms being washed away and our Silencing spells being dissolved. My wand was tugged out of my hand. A spell smacked hard into my shins and knocked me flat on my face. I felt ropes being conjured all around me before I heard a rough, smoky voice roar, "_Stupefy_!" I was out entirely before the ropes tightened.

Solberry woke before I did. When I opened my eyes and twisted my head up, trying to take in my situation, the first thing that came into focus was him rocking back and forth rhythmically, his jawed set hard and his eyes wide and fearful. The last time I had seen somebody as panicky as Mortimer Solberry was now, Wilson had stabbed him to death with a kitchen knife. I looked beyond him and saw a small ocean of silver skull masks, with a cascade of pitch black robes under them. One of them stepped forward. There was nothing to distinguish him from any other Death Eater in the tent, except that he moved with a grace and self-assurance that spoke of years of training. Many of the senior Aurors moved the way he did, and until I heard his voice I thought he might acually be one of my old bosses. However, when he spoke, I did not recognize his low, strangely reassuring voice.

"You are awake then?" I was certain that this was the same man who Stunned me.

"I suppose I am, at that."

What was I supposed to do? Spit in his eye? Keep my mouth shut and hope for the best? Crack a joke to show I'm not afraid? Any of those responses could leave me in a world of pain. Cautious neutrality seemed my best bet.

"I tried talking to your friend there. He didn't want to talk."

I shrugged. What could I say?

"He wouldn't answer anything. Stupid of him. The only reason you two are still alive is that I want to find out more about what you did here tonight."

"You can talk to me. I'm all ears." I squirmed on the tile floor, trying to get less uncomfortable. I managed to sit upright.

The head Death Eater paused, and then snapped his fingers. Another indistinguishable skull mask came forward and stood by him. His stance indicated that the only thing keeping him from pouncing on us and ripping our throats out was iron discipline on his part. I've never seen such naked violence etched onto such a simple act as standing still. "Before we begin, you should know that this man's son was on guard duty tonight. He begged me to give you to him." A chorus of growls and nods from the surrounding Death Eaters. "If you lie or I think you're lying, you're his. If you evade any questions, you're his. If you just plain don't know the answer, you're his. In fact, boys, you're going to have to really work at it if you want to stay out Mr. Northwood's hands."

Solberry stopped rocking and looked up at the bereaved father. He quivered slightly, then looked away. I saw tears streaming down his face before he turned towards the tent wall. Solberry was clearly not going to be a great help in this. The only plan I had was to stall for as much time as I could before Northwood maimed me. As plans go, it wasn't much, but since the alternative was to let him maim me now...

"Ask away. I'll answer as best I can."

"What are your names?"

The head Death Eater was patient. He started with background information on us, giving me the habit of answering honestly and instantly. What were our houses at Hogwarts. Where did we spend the night. What was our mother's middle names. Around the fifth irrelevant question, he switched over to only asking about me- perhaps he sensed I knew little about Solberry. What did I do for a living. Which Quidditch team did I support.

It was almost comical, him interrogating me about my favorite color at wand point. It might have been funnier if I couldn't have sensed the snarl under Northwood's mask.

At last, his questions reached dangerous territory. By now, he more or less knew how long it would take for me to give an honest answer, and I guessed that if I showed any uncertainty or hesitation Solberry and I would die horribly at some length.

"Are you in the Order of the Phoenix?" His stance tensed slightly. This was all the warning I had that the stakes had just risen.

"No," I answered. "We are unaffiliated with the Order."

"Do you know any members of the Order of the Phoenix?"

"Yes."

"Name them."

"Alastor Moody."

"He's dead. Who else?"

"_He can't be dead." _I wasn't thinking clearly, to answer like that. The head Death Eater shot a small Stinging hex up my nostrils. It burned it's way up through the soft canals and down my throat. I gagged and snorted and bucked but none of that helped me in the slightest. Through the haze of pain I heard the crowd laughing cruelly.

"Control yourself, Miles. Who else?"

"He was the only one I knew for sure," I gasped.

"Who did you suspect to be in it?" _If you just plain don't know, you're his._

"Shacklebolt," I whispered. "Kingsley Shacklebolt. I never saw any conclusive evidence, bu I thought he was a member." I found out later that soon after this night, Shacklebolt had to go on the run. I'm fairly certain that his cover was blown solely by me, that they never knew where his loyalties truly lay until I broke.

Former Minister Shacklebolt, if you're reading this, I apologize for my betrayal. All I can say in my defense is, torture brought out the worst in me. The head Death Eater changed the subject, rightly believing that I had no more information on the Order.

"You were an Auror. You could have stayed on once the Dark Lord took over, and kept your job and remained safe. Why would you deliberately endanger yourself by opposing us?"

"The Dark Mark killed my sister in the last war. The Dark Lord doesn't get my service after that." The atmosphere of the room seemed to accept this. If there's anything that the upper-class pure-bloods understand, it's standing by your family.

He nodded. "Why did you attack us?"

"The Dark Lord declared us outlaws. Why shouldn't you bleed like we have?" The atmosphere in the room shifted dramatically. _Oh, fuck_, I thought to myself. The temperature plummeted. The crowd of black robed figures shifted restlessly, like they were eager to jump us right then and there. Northwood in particular seemed to tense up dangerously. If I gave any more honest answers like that, I might be cursed limb from limb.

"You misunderstand," he replied coolly. "Why did you attack us here? Specifically? Were you unaware that we outnumbered you more then to one?"

"Moody gave me this location as an Order safehouse. We arrived in the middle of the fight and remained hidden. We had thought to attack you in your sleep."

"You were very, very foolish. And your foolishness cost us three good men."

I looked down at my powerless state. I looked up at the Death Eater gang. I couldn't gainsay his words; we had fucked up good and proper.

"Do you regret attacking us?"

"Yes."

"Good. Are there any more to your little gang than you two?"

"No." But I had hesitated a split second too long; I could sense it. The head Death Eater caught it, and he motioned Northwood forward towards me.

"Northwood. Take a finger. Only one finger, mind. Just enough to get him talking again." Northwood advanced.

"Wait. _Wait_!" I screamed, jerking away from him. "I'll talk. I swear I'll talk! Please don't take my finger, I'll tell you, I swear I'll talk, just stop. Please, please, please stop…"

The head Death Eater told me over Northwood's shoulder, "I warned you what would happen if you lied. Left hand, I think, Northwood."

I shrieked and thrashed and tried to scoot away, but of course it was useless. The sad fact is, a man who's bound up cannot escape a man with a wand. Northwood took his time about it. He cursed off a small segment of my left middle finger below the big knuckle, savored my screams, then widened it slowly, and then repeated the process until it came off. Blood flowed freely from the wound until his boss made him staunch it. Unfortunately for me, he did not specify how to do it, so Northwood conjured up fire to cauterize the stump, stopping the blood loss in the most agonizing way possible. My left hand, an appendage I had never particularly appreciated until then, had been turned into a charred and misshapen claw.

Wilson's words returned to me then cutting through the firestorm of pain radiating from my hand- _The Cruciatus is painful as all hell, but once it's over, it's over. No consequences. But those cuts will stay with him for life, and he knows it._ I had some perspective on the subject, now.

Solberry stared teary-eyed at us throughout the process. I don't think he could have looked away if he tried. His eyes were empty and he seemed nauseated. He figured he was next up.

"Let's try this again, Miles. Are there anymore in your gang?"

I looked up at him. Shock had kicked in; I could barely hear him for the buzzing in my ears, and my vision was warping his silver mask into a shiny shade of orange. Behind him, and behind the crowd of Death Eaters, I saw the tent flap twitch upwards, raising for just a moment.

"Yes, there is."

"Who is he?"

"His name is Robert Wilson."

"I know him. Why didn't he come with you on your raid?"

"He was injured."

"Oh? Then where is he now? Nearby? Helpless?"

"Pull that trigger, Wilson."

The crash of the Muggle gun reverberated in the crowded room, and from my perspective on the floor I saw Northwood's mask shatter and blood come spraying out. He dropped listlessly to the floor as the Death Eater crowd were thrust into complete turmoil.


	8. Hostages

"_Political power grows from the barrel of a gun."  
_-Mao Zedong

Let me give credit where it's due. Wilson shone like a diamond in this point of the story; he displayed the loyalty of a Hufflepuff, the bravery of a Gryffindor, the knowledge of a Ravenclaw, and the cunning of a Slytherin. Dumbledore, who as most people know had always desired the four Houses of Hogwarts to work together, would have been proud of him. I doubt if Dumbledore would have been too proud of anything else that Wilson had done in his life, but here, he was bloody magnificent.

After Solberry and I left the tall grass, Wilson had spent all the time necessary to get to his feet and staggered after us. I don't believe he knew we would fuck it up, but he was determined not to be left out due to an injury. I believe that Wilson had spent too long as a crime lord; he had survived and prospered in profession where any show of weakness was potentially lethal. His habits may have pressed him to the limits of his endurance, but I don't think he ever considered not going. He kept his wand, though his magical energy was too depleted to use it effectively. And, obviously, he brought the gun, which required no magic at all. We were moving almost as slowly he was, because it's hard to power walk when you're trying to keep tabs on your invisible companion, so we didn't end up too far ahead of him. He watched us kill the guards, although to be more precise, he watched the guards die; it must have been an interesting sight for him, watching the enemy writhe and fall with no visible attackers.

He watched us enter the tent, and saw the ward spell activate, and heard the Death Eaters rouse themselves. Here is where he showed his loyalty; he decided straight off not to abandon us to our fate, as Solberry would have done. Some instinct within him must have arisen and named the two of us as being in his gang, and Wilson did not become the Lord of Knockturn Alley by not taking care of his gang. He crouched just outside the tent flap, and tried to think of what to do to help us.

It's like I said- sloppy of them. They should have had people out there watching, if only in case the defenders of Starbury Row decided to sally. Julian Greengrass might have been a lightning storm on two legs when it came to dueling, and might have had some elementary instinct towards tactics, but he was just bloody awful at security. I don't think he had ever led a group into a fight before.

So Wilson sat and listened the one sided interview with Solberry, recognizing the head Death Eater's voice as that of his old mate, Julian Greengrass. He assured himself that we weren't going to die just yet, which would have given him time to try to think of something, except then my interrogation started to get bloody. He knew he had to act.

That's how he told it to Solberry and me afterwards. "I knew then I had to act," he said to us. Me, now, I think he's purposely misremembering it. I reckon that once he saw that I would crack and tell them about him lying helpless nearby, he knew he had to interrupt the proceedings. Otherwise he would have had a squad of Death Eaters leaving the tent and barging right into him. But whether it was fierce devotion to our gory little gang or enlightened self-interest on his part, he showed his bravery. Without any actual plan past the opening shot, he snuck in and killed Northwood before he could take another finger off of me. And obviously, the alarm system didn't go off because Wilson was still under the effects of the Malattio curse.

And that's when things get murky for me. At that point in time, my world consisted of me, the smooth green tent bottom on my knees and right shoulder, and unbearable shafts of pain emitting from my maimed left hand. So I can't give you a precise account of what Wilson did next. I simply lay on the floor, absorbed by the sight of my finger on the floor next to me and trying not to weep.

I do know that in the confusion that followed Wilson's entrance, he fired another shot into the crowd of Death Eaters, which bounced off of a quick-thinking warlock's shield charm and ricocheted back into Wilson's earlobe, but I never heard or saw it happen. I only saw the blood sliding down his neck afterwards.

I also know that he took a nearby Death Eater by the throat and swiveled him around to use as a human shield, but I couldn't see how he managed it. If that Death Eater had been a touch more alert or Wilson a shade less durable, I doubt any one of us would have escaped that tent alive. Indeed, if the Death Eater had been anyone else we likely would have died anyway, but this is where Wilson showed his knowledge. The Death Eater in question had a tattoo on the back of his right hand of an eagle in flight that Wilson recognized. As a favor to his friend and business partner, Wilson had taken Julian Greengrass's only son Martin out on his sixteenth birthday to get tattoos, and when he entered the tent and saw a Death Eater with that same tat. . .

Like I said, this period is unclear for me. I only know that quite soon, the situation in the room was a standoff, with a Wilson holding his gun's point into the small of a Death Eater's back and the rest of the room assuming dueling stances and pumping themselves up to rush him.

I watched, detached, as Greengrass screamed at his followers, _"Stop! Nobody attack! Nobody!"_

A Death Eater on Wilson's left disobeyed and shot a nasty colored curse at Wilson's side. Wilson didn't miss a beat; he saw the movement and twisted his hostage into the line of fire. The curse struck the captive Death Eater and sent him into convulsions, and Wilson jerked him back into position. Wilson's face went grey at the exertion but his grip was firm enough. The Death Eater who attacked disgustedly waved his wand and removed the curse just before Greengrass dropped him with the Cruciatus.

"When I order you to heel, you stupid _fuck_, I _will_ be obeyed!" Greengrass howled at him. His voice quivered with barely suppressed rage- a sharp contrast to the calm and unexcited tone he used to interrogate me. "The next man who attacks without my permission dies on the spot. Do you all understand?"

They understood.

Numbing exhaustion drained it of its normal ferocity, but Wilson's smile still made an appearance. From my position on the floor, I thought he looked fairly pleased with himself.

"That's Julian Greengrass. Is it not?" he asked. "Strange. I never figured you for a Blackrobe."

Greengrass shrugged. His mask, obviously, was inscrutable.

"I know you well enough to know you would never endanger your own child," Wilson continued. "You can be ruthless, alright, but just not in that area."

Another shrug from Julian Greengrass.

"Which means we are at an impasse. My partners are in your power, and your son is in mine. Can we deal?"

"We can deal."

Wilson nodded. "Just keep in mind, if anything goes wrong at all, young Martin here dies first."

"Anything you do to my boy," Greengrass said, quietly, "will be visited upon you twentyfold. This I promise." He didn't sound like he was trying to sound threatening. It was a statement of fact. _If this thing happens, that will follow._

Wilson grinned again. "Do you remember the Caravaggio brothers? Those two Italian idiots who tried to muscle in on me back in '91?"

"I do."

"Ha! Remember how I abducted their sister after they tried to burn down Borgin's and Burke's? They owled me and threatened to kill me if anything happened to her." Wilson's smile turned predatory again. "Do you recall what I told them was the price for threatening me? Do you recall what I sent back to them?"

Greengrass said nothing. Time passed with excruciating slowness. The Death Eaters seemed motionless. For some reason, I was overly aware of my breathing. Breathe in, breathe out, in and out.

"I see that you do," Wilson purred. "So how about we keep the empty threats to a minimum, Julian, because I don't respond well to them. I'm sure that we can all walk away from this in one piece..."

In retrospect, I take back what I said about how Dumbledore would have been proud of him. I doubt that he, or indeed any other "hero" of the Third Wizarding War, would have approved of threatening an enemy's family. Call it morals or call it squeamishness, but most would say that attacking someone through their loved ones was evil- a Death Eater tactic through and through. I can't deny it, but I will say that if Wilson hadn't been such a fucking butcher we would have died that night. So perhaps heroism is over-rated. I don't care what the rest of the wizarding world says, heroism didn't get me out of that tent; sly, nasty, Slytherin cunning did.

And hell- the kid was a Death Eater. He should have known the risks.


	9. Vengeance and Diplomacy

A/N: I hate to sound desparate, but any reviews at all are encouraged.

"_Revenge is a confession of pain."_  
-Latin Proverb

We tried to work out an agreement on how to exchange prisoners, and it was a shambles at first. A tense, potentially fatal shambles, and one in which I had little power to affect. Something about getting hurt bad robbed me of any initiative. I seemed to be watching from outside my body at the goings-on around me, no more affected by the words and movements of all the people than if I'd been attending a play. I sat quietly and studiously, watching the proceedings at wand point, listening to Wilson and Greengrass threaten and cajole each other into an acceptable trade. All the while the Death Eater's waited on the balls of their feet, ready to flood Wilson in a tide of Dark Magic the moment their leader let them off the leash.

"Of course I'm not going to bloody give him over!" Wilson would snap, blooding sliding smoothly down his neck from his missing earlobe. "The second he leaves my grasp, your cronies can kill me scot free, and where would I be then? You give over Brand and Solberry, and we'll talk about Martin going free." I was too far away to see how Martin was taking this. I don't know whether he was staying stock still and sweating in his powerlessness as I had while Northwood had approached me; or if he was struggling to get free; or if he was staying cool and waiting for an opportunity. I just know he wasn't disrupting the negotiation process.

"Don't give me that," Greengrass would retort. "You expect me to believe you would release him after you get your friends back? You could take off with him as a bargaining chip for the future, or kill him out of spite, and there wouldn't be much I could do about it in either case. We switch off at the same time, or I get Martin back first. This is a deal-breaker, Robert."

"Oh, yes. Brilliant planning. We switch off our hostages, and then the last thing we see are three green flashes of light." A brief burst of sarcastic laughter and a violent shaking of the captive. "Julian, man, I swear to fucking God that your only boy is going to die in front of your very eyes if you don't start getting serious about this."

"You kill him, I'll skin you. An inch a fucking minute. And your two little mates here as well. Don't think for a moment I'm bluffing."

And so on and so forth.

The main stumbling block for negotiations was the fact that neither side could reasonably trust the other. The Death Eaters had a reputation for heinousness, after all. Moreover, they outnumbered us. If Julian Greengrass decided to break his word (and it there was no visible reason why he wouldn't) he could do it without consequences, and we knew it. This by itself is a roadblock in any negotiation, but Greengrass knew Wilson personally and had seen him at work. Regrettably, Wilson also had a reputation for treachery. Not often, obviously- no one can rule the underworld as a known oath-breaker because you always need people to believe they can deal with you in good faith. But likewise, you'll never gain power at all if you don't take advantage of the benefits that lying and backstabbing can bring. Wilson's history was working against us- Greengrass could not take it on faith that Martin would survive if he gave Solberry and me over.

Greengrass's immunity to consequences and Wilson's potential spite deadlocked all negotiations for a very worrying while. Then Solberry cut the Gordian knot.

Wilson had just announced, for the third time that night, that he would blow Martin's brains out right there and then when Solberry spoke up: "I have an idea. Hello?"

Nobody heard him but me; Greengrass, Wilson, and the crowd were too focused on their own fruitless discussion.

Solberry raised his voice. "I can solve this."

They continued to threaten and bluster.

Solberry took a deep breath. His breathing was hitched and fast paced from crying before, but his voice was steady enough. "_I know how to get Martin, me and Brand out of this alive._"

This time, they paid attention.

"The Unbreakable Oath. You both Swear to not attack once the hostages are exchanged. Then neither of you will dare to strike."

Wilson and Greengrass eyed each other. An unspoken conversation passed between them. I judged, from my position in the audience, that they were wary about it, but mostly in favor of it.

"You hear that, Martin?" Wilson said. "You're apparently going to be fine." He sounded fairly upbeat.

Greengrass began to approach him until Wilson stopped him short. "I don't think so, Julian. You can just back up to where you were. I've seen you in action, and you're not getting anywhere near me."

"This is the only way we can settle this without violence," Greengrass said slowly. He hadn't backed up. "Unless you want to resort to violence. Right now." His low, rough voice had gotten a whole lot rougher.

"You don't have the guts to give that order." He shook Martin Greengrass again. The kid didn't visibly react to it. I suppose he was staying still and not provoking the man with the mysterious death rod pressed against his back. "Not while you're precious lad is in the line of fire."

"You keep on threatening my boy and I might start to believe you. I might have take my best shot and pray for the best." The Death Eaters had started, ever so subtly, to inch around close to Wilson's flank, where he was unprotected by the hostage.

Wilson thrust the gun hard against Martin's side, straight into the kidneys. The kid gasped. "You need to back the fuck off! _Now_! Get the _fuck_ back!" For a moment, Wilson looked and sounded rattled. He was well aware to how quickly this situation could turn on him, and for a second I thought he might shoot Martin preemptively out of spite.

The Death Eaters halted first. But they didn't retreat.

Solberry cleared his throat. "Are you two ready to stop with all pointless threats now? Can we, in fact, behave like sane wizards for just a moment? Because I have the solution to this." His words were calm and reasonable- his face, less so. He was also alive to the precariousness of the situation.

It seems strange in retrospect that I was not very concerned at all. The outcome of this negotiation really was like that of a book or play for me. I was certainly interested in whether Wilson could get us out alive, but it didn't really seem to apply to me.

A compromise was reached without further complications. Since Wilson couldn't trust the famed duelist close enough to hold hands, Solberry suggestion went, I would do it. Wilson could stay with his hostage across the room in safety while I, the actual leader, would be the Oathtaker, with Solberry acting as Bonder.

They unleashed us from the conjured ropes. Before I got up to do my part, I reached out and scooped up my missing digit and stuffed it in a pouch in my robe. I couldn't tell you why, it couldn't be reattached. It just struck me as a good idea to get it before we left.

Solberry's plan almost failed because I fucked up almost as soon as I was free. As I was placed in front of Greengrass to make the Unbreakable Vow, I caught a glimpse of his eyes through the sockets of his skull mask. From what little I could see, I got a sense of fear and rage, and all the sudden I was swept with a wave of pure, seething, blinding hatred.

My finger. Oh, God, my finger. My hand looks like some kind of malformed spider, off balance and incomplete, cracked and charred from Northwood's fire. I'll never be whole again. I'll never let this go, you sick bastard. I'll get you. Some dark night, you'll never see me coming. The second you think you're safe, far away from any threat, I jump you. Tear your every finger off. See how you like it. Then I'll see how long it'll take to Crucio you into insanity, like the Longbottoms. And look at you- so concerned for your own flesh and blood that you inducted him into your coven of Dark Wizards and send him off to fight the Dark Lord's battles. Before you lose your mind I'll maim him right in front of you. Show him what kind of war his ole dad is fighting. I swear before any god you care to name that you will suffer more than you can comprehend. I will _invent_ new forms of pain, just for you. I'm in pain, and you will pay for it. I fucking promise you.

Solberry gasped. The room had gone quiet, and possibly a little scared. I remember, one time in my fifth year of Hogwarts, I had been upset, more upset than I had ever been before. I was raging up and down the halls at night, after everyone had gone to bed, swearing at the paintings and blasting random holes in the walls. My sister Helene had died the day before. It was my first experience grieving, and I hadn't learned how to endure it yet. When Professor McGonagall confronted me after I woke up half the castle, I turned and snarled something as she strode towards me. I don't know what expression my face held, but it was enough to make a hardened witch like her back up a few steps and reassess the situation. Her reaction calmed me down. I was unaware of how my actions appeared to others, and seeing her recoil from me stopped my ranting almost instantly. The reason why I tell this story is that her reaction to me was very similar to how Julian Greengrass reacted to me now. He had backstepped involuntarily, as though trying to stand against a strong wind, and I realized for the first time that I had been speaking aloud.

Needless to say, this complicated things considerably. I do not like the side of myself that can rage that much and I certainly do not want to dwell any further on the repercussions of my rant. So allow me to sum up what occurred next:

Greengrass sent a curse screaming into my solar plexus, doubling me up. I imagine he thought he was acting in self defense.

Wilson struck the boy again and shouted at Greengrass to stop.

The Death Eaters were paralyzed with indecision. They were unsure of whether to rush Wilson and maybe incur Greengrass's wrath, calm their leader down and maybe incur Greengrass's wrath, or help him to kill me, which might lead to Wilson killing their boss's son, which meant they should rush Wilson, and from there on and on down other circuitous mental paths. The end result was mostly standing in place and being very confused on what to do next.

Solberry screamed for us to calm down, that I was an idiot, that we needed to work out the trade.

Long story short, we calmed down eventually and got the Unbreakable Vow started. Greengrass stuck out his right hand to begin and I stuck out my left. Another moment of tension, then he grasped my left hand with his. He held it lightly, as though it might explode at any time. For my part, the pain his clasp invoked was incredible- like I was losing my digit all over again. But I grit my teeth and stared him in the eye, trying without words to tell him that as long as I had to look at a disfigured hand, he would need to look over his shoulder.

The Vow we made had four clauses. Each was punctuated by a wreath of flame wrapping around our wrists:

We agreed to swap hostages, two for one.

Greengrass would return our wands.

Wilson, Solberry and I would not attack any servant of the Dark Lord for at least one hour.

Greengrass would neither attack us nor give permission to any Death Eater to attack us for at one hour.

Wilson collected us and we walked out of the tent in one piece. Well. Depending on a fairly liberal definition of one piece, anyway.


	10. A Brief Denouement

"_Victorious warriors win first and then go to war, while defeated warriors go to war first and then seek to win."_  
- Sun-tzu

"You know," Wilson mused, as we trudged away from the Death Eater camp, "you could argue we just won that little skirmish." He was supported in between Solberry and me, barely able to function. His energy had been sapped and his body abused.

Solberry snorted derisively.

"No, think about it," Wilson said. "We traded Brand's finger for the lives of four Death Eaters. If we can keep this ratio up, we can cleanse Britain of the Dark Mark by Christmas. No offense meant, Brand, and of course Morty and I will chip in a finger or two..."

Solberry started giggling, hard. It made it difficult to keep Wilson propped up, but I don't think Solberry could help it. All of the terror that had been swirling around in his head for the last hour had to escape somehow, I suppose.

"Shut your fucking mouth, Wilson," I heard myself snarl. "Not now. Don't fucking joke about it now."

Solberry's laughter choked off, and for a while all was silent. We stumbled through the dark, with Solberry's wand illuminating the path before us as I struggled not to cry and Wilson struggled to stay conscious.

"If I may open a nonfinger related topic of discussion?" Solberry asked.

I nodded, then realized that he probably couldn't see me since his wand was pointed ahead. "Yes."

"The, ah, defenders of Starbury Row..."

"I hope they give the Dark Mark hell. I hope their last stand enters the realm of myth and legend. Hell, I even hope they fight their way out to safety. But they'll be doing it without us."

"That's right," Wilson slurred. He sounded like he was drunk, or more likely concussed. We needed to find somewhere nearby to rest and recharge, as none of us except perhaps Solberry were in any shape to Apparate anywhere. "We gave it our best shot. Fuck 'em."

"So where do we go from here?" Solberry asked. We were past the Anti-Disapparation field, and still had 57 minutes left until hostilities resumed. "What's the plan?"

"Find an abandoned building, Muggle or otherwise, and spend the night. In the morning, we plan properly."

"I know a place, I think," Wilson volunteered. "We're in Wessex, yeah? I heard about a place in Wessex that would be great for hiding out. It's got a-" Wilson stopped, looking dizzy. His eyes refocused and he continued. "Sorry. You two know where Little Hangleton is?"

I was a city boy, so I didn't know much about the country, but Solberry said he knew the town.

"I heard about a place up there. It's like the Shrieking Shack, but haunted by human Dark Magic and not ghosts. The old Gaunt residence. That family had a reputation as going as Dark as you can go, and rumor has it there are still traces of their power hanging about the place. You can sense the evil that occurred inside just by walking by the front door, and other shite of that stripe. It's been uninhabited for decades, but all the wizarding folk still avoid it, and of course the Muggles don't have a clue about it. I was intending to use it as a drop point for transporting contraband into the area, but the need never arose."

"Sounds good," I said. "Do you know where Little Hangleton is?"

"If we are where I think we are," Wilson replied, "it should be about three miles up the road."

"Hey, Wilson," Solberry interrupted. "Tell us, who was that Death Eater? The one that you knew?"

"Fucking hell," Wilson said. "Can't it wait till morning?"

Between hauling a semi catatonic Wilson three miles in the dark, the pain still radiating from my left hand, and Solberry's complaining, and hoping to be able to spend the night in a haunted hovel, it was destined to be a long, horrifically bad night.


	11. Interlude: Dumbledore Stories

"_I would've liked to seen you  
and you could run wild.  
I would've liked to know you  
As an innocent child."  
_- Mick Jones

I didn't plan on writing the following anecdote for any kind of audience. Opening up and talking about my feelings does not come naturally to me, this story notwithstanding. I had anticipated taking this one with me to the grave, but apparently my story has other plans. Everybody who knew him, it seems, had a Dumbledore story, and this is mine.

April 3rd, 1981 had seen the death of two of the greatest fighting wizards to ever make a stand against the Dark Arts- Gideon and Fabian Prewett. Everybody knows the story- I believe it has its own chapter in _The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts_. Gideon and Fabian had been on routine Order business near Yorkshire when they were attacked by a squad of Death Eaters led by the infamous Antonin Dolohov. The Dark Mark had been lying in ambush- they had been betrayed by someone within the Order, discovered later to have been the traitor Sirius Black, then rediscovered years later to have been the traitor Peter Pettigrew. The brothers had been forced into a Muggle barn where they had to fight back to back against a superior force for over three hours before finally being slain.

However, because they had held out so long and fought so furiously, the Ministry was able to send out a sizable search party to find them, and this search party found Dolohov's gang of cutthroats still on the premises. The Death Eaters had to scramble to escape the fury of bereaved friends trying to avenge their comrades. In the course of Death Eaters' escape, they blasted a hole through a pack of civilians to reach safety. Along with three Muggles, my sister Helene was killed.

She was a Ministry witch- a ward consultant. It was her job to advise non-combative wizards how to secure their homes. Her whole job consisted of helping others and doing right by her community. I later joined the Aurors in imitation of her. I'm glad she'll never have to read this book- if she found out where her influence led me in the end, I wouldn't like to imagine how she'd react.

Helene wasn't even on duty that day, incidentally. She was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.

As I mentioned, I was in my fifth year at Hogwarts at the time. A time of finding out all the wonderful mysteries of girls, of cramming my head full of knowledge to try and pass my OWLs, of pranking the prats in Gryffindor, Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw and trying to avoid their pranks in turn. Despite the stress of the upcoming OWL exams (how the hell had it gotten to be April already?), I was carefree. It didn't feel like it at the time, but when compared to my life afterwards...

My father owled me with the news the next day. I was sitting at the Slytherin table having breakfast. My Housemates discuss were discussing our chances in next week's Quidditch match while I was memorizing Potions notes. The letter landed on the Potions text book before me, making a sharp smacking noise that made me jerk to attention.

There was instant, awkward silence around my portion of the table. In those days, when a letter came that you weren't expecting, it was usually bad. You-Know-Who was on the rise, and it was a rare week that went by without someone getting the message that the Dark Mark had been cast above their front door. Granted, it was usually at the Gryffindor table, but everyone could tell that it was Slytherin's turn today.

I opened the note with steady hands.

I read the note.

I folded the note back up again.

Whispers:

"Miles? Is it... you know?"

"Miles? Are you okay?"

"Is he going to be alright?"

"He isn't even blinking. Someone call Professor Slughorn."

"I'm alright," I said. My voice might be best have been described as neutral. I felt nothing, so I had no emotion to choke down. "Really, I'm fine."

"What did it say?" Michael whispered to me. Michael Westcutt was my best mate, but I was not ready to open to anybody.

I handed the letter to him without saying anything.

Michael was a big guy- wide shoulders, bulging muscles, broad face. He had been merely large in his first year, but four years of training in the Beater's position on the Quidditch field had hardened him into a living hammer. Even so, he seemed to shrink a little as he scanned the note. He refolded it again and handed it back.

"Shit, mate," he whispered.

"Yeah."

"I wish I could put it better, but..."

"I know."

"If there's anything I can do-"

I ate the rest of my meal in silence, forcing my mind to focus on Potion making and to ignore the muted whispers of the Slytherin table. Back in those days, and Hogwarts, we could all feel the war raging outside our walls, and some days it seemed like it was leaking into our sanctuary as well. There seemed to be a low-level, simmering war between the sons and daughters of the Death Eaters and the children of the Order. I had mostly stayed out of it, focusing on my studies. I noticed that there was a contingent at the far end of the table who seemed less sympathetic and more amused by my letter. They were all members of the Death Eater faction. I did my best to ignore them, although God knows it wasn't easy.

The day passed as all the previous days had passed, with class work to be done and a familiar community to navigate. It struck me that tomorrow would be similar to today, and the day after would be as well, and the day after that. It appeared that the world wasn't going to stop just because tragedy had struck.

That night, as I told you before, I went a little crazy. As I said, McGonagall stopped me as I wandered the halls of Hogwarts in darkness, burning holes into stone walls and abusing the paintings. I don't wish to delve into that bit of the story again, so let's get on to the Dumbledore part.

I was brought into the Headmaster's office a silent, sullen, tightly wound child who was in the middle of learning that bad things can happen to anyone.

Dumbledore had the deepest, most sorrowful eyes I had ever seen. Throughout my time at school, they had always twinkled with a kind of wild joy, but at the moment there wasn't a hint of frivolity in him now. He sat me down, offered me a Muggle sweet, and asked, "Mr. Brand. Are you recovered?"

"I am, sir. I'm much better now."

"Ah," he said, nodding to himself. "I am glad to hear it. Many people, in the presence of loss and grief, tend to turn themselves inside out to not feel the pain."

_Oh, good_, I commented to myself. _Lecture time._

"I understand, sir. I'm sorry about the tapestries."

"Oh, the _tapestries_! Merlin's beard, Miles, if anything I'm glad they're gone. They've been badgering me all year long for better working conditions. If I've told them once, I've told them a thousand times that the wall on the South-East sixth floor corridor is a perfectly adequate spot, but do they listen?"

I nodded, as somberly and as sympathetically as I could. Brilliant, but mad.

"But," Dumbledore continued, "I do believe that you do not understand what grief is, Miles. Grief is not just feeling horrible. It's love. Miles, what you're feeling, the reason why you so thoughtfully redecorated the walls of Hogwarts, is because you love your sister and you know she's not here anymore."

I already knew that she's not here. I clamped down on my eyes, and ordered them not to start crying.

"Grief, Miles, is love saying good-bye. You mustn't run away from it, anymore than you should have kept away from Helene when she was alive. Cherish her memory, and she will never truly be gone from you."

My eyes ignored me, and the tears slid silently down my cheeks.

"As long as you are capable of love, Miles, you will always have her with you."

I took a moment, made sure my voice was steady before speaking. "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

Dumbledore was silent for a moment. "You know, I lost a sister too. I do know what it's like to lose someone. You're not alone, Miles, especially not in these dark days."

I made my way back to my dorm in the darkness. I didn't feel like attacking the walls again, but somehow I felt that I should since I'd already done it once. I felt like I was betraying Helene's memory, starting with a huge dramatic outburst and then calming down afterwards. The paintings were all vacant as I passed them- even portraits have some instinct of self-preservation.

Back in the Slytherin dungeons, I accidentally woke Michael Westcutt getting back into bed. Or maybe he was awake, waiting for me to get back.

"Well?"

"Well, what?"

"Are you okay now? Are you, uh..."

"Still insane?"

Michael laughed quietly. "Yeah."

"No, I'm not. I'm back to normal."

"That's good. If there's anything I can do, let me know." And Michael went back to sleep.

I laywide awake in bed for I don't know how long, hands clasped behind my head, thinking over what Professor Dumbledore had told me. I mulled it over for a half hour or so, than woke Michael up again.

"Michael, I talked with Dumbledore."

"Gah?" He wasn't quite awake yet.

"Dumbledore. He talked to me after McGonagall stopped me."

"What did he have to say?"

"He kept going on about how grief goes, and how if I really loved Helene she would always be with me, and I just sat there and I thought, this is complete bollocks. You know? It doesn't matter if I loved her, hated her, or what, because it doesn't affect anything. She's dead, and no amount of sentimental shite from him will change that. You know what I mean?"

Michael nodded slowly.

"You asked me if there's anything you can do for me."

Michael nodded, this time more readily. He wasn't sure about criticizing Dumbledore, but he knew where he stood when it came to helping friends.

"You know that son of a bitch Robin Rosier? The bloke who keeps going on about how we need to make Muggle-hunting legal?"

"Yeah, what about him?"

"It's an open secret that his father is a supporter of You-Know-Who. I want you to hospitalise him."

Michael eyed me strangely in the dark. I can't imagine how I appeared to make him look at me that way.

"Are you _sure _you're back to normal? 'Cause you still sound insane."

"I swear to you, I'm not crazy. You see, I can't do it, Mike. Everybody knows about Helene by now, and by morning everyone will know about my little tantrum. They'll be expecting me to act out, so if I take a shot at him, I'll get caught immediately and I don't want that. But no-one is expecting anything out of you. So hospitalise him. Do it sneakily, from behind, so he can't fink on you. Hurt him bad enough to get him sent to Madame Pomfrey and stay with her for a good long while. That is what you can do for me."

"Man, Dumbledore's talk with you really backfired with you, didn't it?"

"He talks like her death doesn't matter. He talks like she's not really gone and she is, Mike. She's gone and she'll stay gone, and that is that. He talks... he talks like death isn't real. So fuck him. If I can't get her back, I'll have to settle for payback."

"And what did Robin Rosier ever do to her? This doesn't sound like payback, it's more like... pay at an oblique angle to someone else entirely. It's not the same."

"Robin's father has hurt someone, right? Most probably?"

"Yeah..."

"If I avenge that someone's loss, perhaps somebody will avenge mine."

Silence from Michael.

"I know, it sounds stupid. But this is quite literally the least I can do for her, Mike. Please, man. I really need your help."

Michael closed his eyes. "Alright. It'll take some time to set up though."

"That's fine. Take all the time you need."

"Night, then, Miles."

"Goodnight, Michael." I slept like a log the rest of the night. It felt immeasurably better to be taking action than to sit and mourn.

So, that's my Dumbledore story. I don't really regret not taking his little pep talk to heart. It's been twenty-two years now since my Helene was murdered, and she's not with me in spirit or anything. She's just gone. Even at age fifteen, I knew that loved ones who die are gone forever.

But I will say this- I genuinely hope that there was more to Dumbledore's worldview than the dull inanities on the surface. Because my own worldview, where vengeance is the only antidote to grief and sentimentality is given no quarter, has led me into a bloody, miserable cycle of violence that only self-imposed exile has alleviated. I would like to think that it's possible to live a better life than mine.


	12. Catching Our Breath

"_There's nothing to do here,  
Some just whine and complain  
In bed at the hospital.  
Coming and going, asleep and awake  
In bed at the hospital."_  
- Nathan Willet

We arrived at the shack- and frankly the word "shack" is sugarcoating it. It didn't even rate a "dilapidated rathole" in my book, but it had a roof, four walls, and a reputation that could protect us. By that time we had passed beyond mere tiredness and entered the realm of almost zen-like exhaustion. For the last hour, it had been take a deep breath, lift the left foot, fling it forward, lift the right and fling it forward, repeat, and for God's sake don't stop because if you do you'll never start up again.

When we came up to the front door, it was almost dawn, and for some unfathomable reason, there was a snake skeleton nailed to the door.

Against our better judgement, we stopped and stared at it. The snake skeleton hung there limply; its eye sockets seemed to be mocking us, implying that we were clearly idiots if we couldn't work out its purpose.

"I don't get it," Solberry said. "Is it a warning or something? If you trespass, we'll Transfigure you into a snake and nail you to the door?"

"Sounds ridiculous to me," Wilson said.

"Yeah, but if someone threatened you like that, you'd leave, though, wouldn't you?"

Wilson thought about it. "Maybe. Weird threats can certainly be effective."

"They were Dark wizards, right, Wilson?" I said.

"Yeah. Probably inbred as well."

"Then maybe it's a sign of superiority. 'Look how Slytherin we are! I bet _you're_ not Slytherin enough to have a dead snake on _your_ front door.' "

"I wouldn't know," Solberry replied. "I never went to Hogwarts. I was taught at home."

"Were they Parselmouths or something? Is that why they have a snake?"

Wilson shrugged. "You've got me. But if they could talk to snakes, why would they nail it to a door? You'd have to listen to the poor thing beg for mercy while you did it."

"You _did_ say they were Dark."

We pondered it some more. Mostly we were glad to have an excuse not to trudge like zombies down dark and stony paths.

"This is stupid," I finally said. "We can think about it after we sleep. Let's get inside."

"Can't," Wilson said. "I'm dead on my feet. I don't think I can move inside."

"For fuck's sake, Wilson, it's fucking five feet through the door into fucking shelter. Just fucking get in."

"It's not my decision, Brand. I stopped moving, so I don't have inertia working for me anymore. I think I'll sleep outside for tonight."

"Tonight, hell," Solberry chimed in. "It's morning now."

And so it was. Dawn's rosy fingers were reaching into my eyes and twisting them cruelly. The effect was similar to the ward spell that Solberry and I walked into. I really needed to sleep soon.

"Wilson, don't you dare collapse here. We need to stay indoors and keep out of sight of any passing Muggles or Snatchers. You can fall over in the living room. _Wilson_!"

It was too late. Wilson slide ungracefully to the wooden porch and stayed there, breathing hard. Solberry took the opportunity to relieve him of the Muggle gun. He stuck it in his robes, muttering about how next time it would be his turn. Between the two of us, we were able to drag Wilson indoors, verbally abusing Wilson all the time. I flailed in frustration as I hauled Wilson one-handed by the collar.

"If I didn't owe you my life, you bastard," I told his unconscious body, "I would fucking kill you." Purely out of spite, I kicked him in the ribs. He absorbed the blow and didn't respond, but it threw me off balance and I fell to the dirty, threadbare carpet, banging the back of my head on the wall on the way down. No matter where I end up, it's always ratty and dirty and uncomfortable. I needed to stay at a well-run, Mom and Pop inn somewhere.

I heard Solberry plop himself down on a couch in the next room over.

"Hey, Solberry."

He grunted inquisitively.

"If you wake up before me, and you wake me up, I'll kill you."

"Same goes for you."

I would just go to bed right here on the floor. There was probably a bedroom in the place, but that didn't matter to me. Right then, nothing mattered at all. I sank into a deep and abiding sleep and was immediately plunged into the world of nightmares again..

I awoke bleary eyed and sore the next day. Or rather, around nine at night. Taking nightlong strolls and then sleeping for fifteen hours straight will foul up your sleep schedule, I can tell you. I was first up again. My companions were exactly as they'd fallen, with Solberry snoozing gently on an old and rickety couch and Wilson still face down on the floor. I wandered around until I found the bathroom and shut the door.

I inspected my new stub, twisting my hand this way and that. It was hard to come to terms with it. Try this, reader: hold out your hand in front of you, palm down but fingers up. Now lower your middle finger so that it's hidden by your own hand. Now pretend to yourself that it's not just hidden, but actually gone. All there is now is an empty space where your finger should be. Well, I was in the exact opposite situation- I knew there was no finger there, but I kept imagining that if I twitched my finger up I could see it again, but of course it didn't work.

There was a mirror in there, shattered, with a thousand shards of glass scattered over the floor. I picked one large chunk up and used it to inspect myself.

The shard of glass confirmed that I was a mess on the outside as well. My eyes were bloodshot and wider than appropriate on any sane man; my hair was limp and greasy; my face dirty and unshaven. I dragged out my wand and started to clean myself up, but stopped. Why should I bother taking care of myself? Neither Solberry nor Wilson cared how I looked, and with any luck they were the only people I'd be seeing for a while. Why take the time and effort, is what I'm asking.

I realized I was hungry. Borderline malnutrition had been the norm with me for only a few weeks and already I was sick of it. I Transfigured a particularly large shard of glass into a sheet of paper and inscribed _**Getting food, be back soon MB**_ on it. I left it on the arm of Solberry's couch. I could have woke him up and told him, but I figured that if I wasn't kidding about killing him for waking me up then he probably wasn't either.

It was a short journey from the Gaunt Shack to the town. I wandered the streets of Little Hangleton looking for a place that had any kind of food you could easily take food from. It was a small town, thankfully, and seeing as it was at an hour where most decent people were in bed, there was little traffic to notice me. Near the center of town was some kind of Muggle establishment called a Marks and Spencer, which evidently sold everything anyone could possibly need, including food. It vaguely resembled a low-budget, incredibly small Diagon Alley, filled with Muggle items of uncertain provenance. I located the food section and loaded up a few Conjured bags with loaves of bread, bottles of water, various vegetables and fruits, beef jerky, milk, and so on. Anything that looked edible, basically. There was some kind of automated self checkout process that greatly resembled magic. The bored Muggle teen who was supervising the place tried explaining to me how it worked, but all I grasped was that it was incredibly confusing and bizarre. Half way through her irritated spiel on how to properly pay for the supplies I was hauling off, I realized that none of it applied to me since I was just going to walk out of here with the food without paying anyway. I Confounded her, pointed her in the opposite direction, and told her that she had something incredibly important to do way over there.

I probably shouldn't have enjoyed larceny so much, but I did. It was just plain fun, walking off with useful stuff without having to pay for it. It's a bit of a wonder that more wizarding folk don't rip off Muggles, for the entertainment value if not the profit.


	13. What's It Gonna Be Then, Eh?

_"You gain strength, courage and confidence by every experience in which you really stop to look fear in the face. You are able to say to yourself, 'I have lived through this horror. I can take the next thing that comes along."_  
-Eleanor Roosevelt

"So, what's it gonna be then, eh?"

Solberry's question hung in the air as he, Wilson and I devoured our meal with the dignity and reserve of wild dogs. The three of us sat in a small circle on the floor of what may well have been the family room, or whatever room the previous occupants had sat in front of the fireplace in. We none of us had trusted the rotten, dusty old tables in the kitchen/ dining room, so we all silently agreed on the living room, where Solberry had slept. I chewed and swallowed at least three times before I even thought about answering.

"Well?"

"I think," I said slowly, "We spend today and tomorrow getting our sleep schedules back in line so that we can operate like normal humans."

"Hoorah." This from Wilson, spoken in a deliberate monotone that was muffled by the coffee cake in his right cheek.

"Ooh. Sarcasm. And tonight, we oughtta set up some wards around town to detect any wizards coming in. Something subtle, undetectable. Something that'll give us plenty of warning before trouble arrives at the front door."

"I know just the thing," said Solberry. "I'll take care of it around... what is it now, one thirty in the morning?"

I checked my timepiece. "Aye."

"Then I'll nip off around three. There shouldn't be any Muggles around to notice me setting up the wards, and if there are, then that's why we have Avada Kadavra."

"Or, for that matter, the Confundus Charm."

"Or that, yes."

"Great."

We ate in silence for a while. It was good food, though unfamiliar. Of course, all food is good when you're starving.

Solberry coughed delicately, in such a way as to make it clear he was asking for attention and not, say, clearing his throat. "Wards are all well and good, but... what's it gonna be then, eh?"

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"Are we still, er, fighting the good fight? Or are we hiding till You-Know-Who dies of old age?"

"Ah," I said. I took a bite from a slightly stale loaf of French bread and washed it down with a Muggle drink with the unlikely name of Irn Bru. I had no idea what it consisted of, or for that matter how it was pronounced, but it was pretty good. If peace ever came, I might have to contact the manufacturers and try to get it imported into the wizarding world. There would presumably be a niche market among the Muggle-borns, and there are a lot of people who would try anything once.

I then recalled that Wilson's initial source of illicit income had been smuggling wizarding goods to Muggles- for instance, Veritaserum is worth its weight in gold for those who can't understand its provenance. The parallel was a little too close for comfort, and it stopped that line of thought dead.

"I think," I began, "I think that from now on, we need to pick our targets a little more carefully. To that end, we need a few guidelines.

"One: Lower our ambition. It's far better to for us to bump off a single Snatcher than to risk a stand up fight with actual Death Eaters. If we fight anyone in a black robe, it's because we outnumbered him three to one and we hit him from behind."

"Two: We ignore the Order." Solberry got a kick out of that one, as I knew he would. "It is clear that they have been compromised and broken, and so we can expect no support from that organization. Trying to get in contact with them will only lead us into breaking rule one.

"Three: Gather information. We must discover what specific plans The Dark Mark have made and try to disrupt them, except where doing so will violate rule number one. We might do an enormous amount of damage to them with just a little effort if we only knew what they wanted.

"And, lastly and most importantly, four: When in doubt, retreat. Every fight we start, we lay an escape route ahead of time. This time tomorrow, I want us all to have developed at least three different ways of getting out of town each. I for one do not intend to lose another finger." I held up my left hand for emphasis. They were still, food halfway to their mouths, gazing at me. They nodded in unison, and they did not realize it.

"Once we get settled in here," I continued, "we'll set off and maim some fucker with a Dark Mark."

They both smiled savagely in unison, and they did not realize that, either.


	14. The Ambush

"_Always mystify, mislead and surprise the enemy if possible."_  
-Thomas J. Jackson

The plan was beautiful, and I'm not just saying that because I came up with it. Well, Wilson refined it quite a bit, but it was still my plan in essence.

Wilson procured the supplies- since we didn't dare trade with or rob any wizarding shops, we had to steal from Muggles, which made it Wilson's area of expertise. 150 gallons worth of petrol (which was a sort of Muggle fuel source), check; one garbage bin; check, one tarp, check; eight lengths of hose, check; eight ceramic jars, half a meter high each, check; eight hundred ball bearings, check. I'm not positive what ball bearings are used for in the Muggle world, but I doubt if they are put to the same use that we put them to, since apparently you can just walk in and buy them in a Muggle handyman store. Wilson was gone all day picking up what we needed, from dawn to dusk, Confounding and Obliviating Muggles left and right. He stashed the lot in a dead tree trunk near our selected site, put up Muggle Repelling spells around it, and returned.

From the start, we decided that we would set the ambush away from the Gaunt shack. We elected to use an empty field, which I suppose used to be farmland but had since been abandoned. It was two miles north of Hangleton, which was the sister city of our home base. In theory, this should keep any Death Eaters finding us if they would investigate what we hoped would be a devastating attack. The farmland was surrounded on three sides by a wide swath of forest, which Solberry reckoned would have plenty of hiding spaces around the edges.

Next, we laid our escape route, complying with rule four. Solberry and I trailblazed through the forest, establishing paths through the dead brush and then cunningly hiding them with illusions. If it came to running, the three of us could run full tilt through the trees, while any pursuers would be forced to stumble and struggle after us. The Gaunt shack was our rendezvous point. If worst came to worst and the shack was compromised, our fall-back position was the Muggle motel that we had our war council at.

Next, the three of us picked spots among the trees that had cover and concealment, and commanded a good view of the center of the field. We spent a half hour fortifying our chosen spots, creating trenches we could duck into to avoid unfriendly spells, Charming tree boughs to resist curses, and so on. As Wilson put it, we were stacking the deck in our favor in every way we could. I had absolutely no intention of losing another finger, or worse.

And so- there I stood, alone in the field, psyching myself up to call down the thunder on myself. This was the only part of the plan we were unsure of. We had no way of knowing how long it would take for the enemy to respond. Logic dictated that we had at least a minute of two from the name being spoken to the enemy preparing himself and Apparating in, but logic has an annoying habit of breaking down when it comes to magic. It could be I would break the Taboo and spend the next five minutes waiting for a response. It could be that I would be captured almost before the name left my mouth. We couldn't think of a safe way to test it, so I would have to find out the hard way. Wilson had volunteered for this part, but I refused- if I showed fear, he might perceive himself as being stronger than me, which would lead to a coup sooner or later. It might sound paranoid, but that's really the way Wilson's mind operated. Strength rules, with his mindset. Solberry, of course, will just back whoever happens to be in charge at the moment. He's a follower born.

If I did end up captured, Wilson and Solberry had orders to follow the plan anyway.

I rocked back and forth a little, shivering in the early morning cold. It really was getting to be winter soon. I thought I could feel the stares from Wilson and Solberry from their positions in the woods, on the left wing and on the right wing respectively, although of course I couldn't see them.

I took a deep breath, let it out. The name burst out of me-

"Voluhmer!" _Crack!_

I immediately Dissapparated to my position in the center, screaming in little bursts of fear and relief. I hit the ground and crawled into my trench, looking out into the field for my target. My eyes kept searching as I settled in, firmly entrenched.

Nothing. What the hell?

My palm itched. I looked down and recognized Wilson's handwriting.

**You did say name, right?**

_**Might have slurred.**_

**Try again.**

"Try again, he says," I snarled to myself. "You mudblood fucker. It was bad enough the first time."

Needs must when the devil drives, as my old dad would say. I waited another minute to make sure they weren't just slow, and then returned to the center of the field.

I took another deep breath to calm myself, coughed it out. I jumped up and down in place to burn off some nervous energy. It didn't work- I was shaking all over. For some reason it was harder to do it a second time.

My voice shook as I said, "_Voldemort_."_Crack!_

And I was back in my foxhole again, searching for targets. This time, I got them. A Snatcher gang of about fifteen raggedy wizards. Fifteen predatory lowlifes, looking to sell a fellow wizard for a handful of Sickles. Well, I would have preferred a group of Death Eaters, but you take what life gives you.

I'm going to let you in on a horrible little secret about human nature. Human beings instinctively feel pleasure in exercising power, and the purest form of power takes the form of cruelty. In short, hurting people can feel wonderful. If you look at all the great monsters of history- You-Know-Who, Gellert Grindelwald, Heinrich Kemmler, Dorotea Senjak, Gagool- you see the same theme throughout. There is something joyous about purposely causing harm to others, and all the great villains knew it.

I do not defend this line of thinking, nor do I choose to behave with cruelty now. In fact, I have had to put a thousand miles between me and my past in order to stop the downward spiral. But I admit it, to myself and others; at the time, I enjoyed what we did to those Snatchers.

The Snatcher gang had surrounded the spot I had Disapparated from. They must have thought I was under an Invisibility Cloak, or Disillushioned, because they started flinging spells into the center of their ring, calling out for me to give myself up.

"I don't feel like surrendering, actually," I said to myself. I giggled. I felt a little drunk, and so I was, though on power and not alcohol. "I think I'll have to resist arrest, actually."

This was my cue. I sent the message by palm to my allies, and as one we cast the Blasting Curse.

Before I went out and broke the Taboo, we had spent the night digging. It would have taken a lot longer if we had had to do it the Muggle way with shovels, but wands are convenient that way. We had dug eight holes in a wide circle, and half buried the eight ceramic jars Wilson had stole. The bottoms of the jugs were filled with hard packed dirt, and we filled there rest of the jars with about a hundred ball bearings each. The effect was that each jar was stuck firmly in the earth, with all of the ball bearings above ground level. We then cut the lengths of hose in half, and welded them into jars so that each jar was connected by hose to the others. We then connected the ring of jars to a central hub-the trash can with the tarp covering it- using the remaining hoses, and filled the whole system up with the petrol. The end effect was that every jar was filled to the brim with ball bearings mixed with petrol. The hoses were hid underground and the jar hidden under Conjured clumps of grass. Solberry had wandered around places more Conjured grass at random locations to keep the ring of grass inconspicuous. A Blasting curse to just one of the jars or the garbage can would set off all of them, or so Wilson had claimed.

Three Blasting Curses to the central hub, well, I mean. The Snatchers were fucked.

I flung my fists in the air and howled like a goddamn werewolf as the whole contraption went sky high. It was beautiful. Nine rip-roaring explosions went off almost simultaneously, scattering hundreds of superheated chunks of metal at velocities unreachable by human beings. The flash was too bright to see what happened to the Snatchers at ground zero, but I saw the end result, and the end result filled me with joy.


	15. In Vino Veritas

A/N: Apologies for the lack of updates recently. I started a different story on here about the Black Company and Lord of the Rings, and it's been taking up my time and energy. But after reading halfarian's review, it reminded me that I should probably update this one. I just sat down and out this chapter came.

"_In wine there is truth._"  
-Pliny the Elder

We got pissed. Thoroughly, disgracefully, wonderously drunk. It was the first unambiguous victory we'd had for a while now. We broke into the Marks and Spencers, hit the section that had the booze, and made a night of it.

There was something thrilling about having a party safe and sound while outside the walls it seems like the whole world is hunting you. Enjoy yourself, Death Eaters and traitors. Enjoy searching through endless cold and dreary neighbors looking for us, losing sleep and patience in vain. We'll just kick back and leave you to your fruitless search.

We barely talked at all through the first two bottles. We just sat and grinned and slapped each other's backs and made small talk about the Muggle wine.

"Check this out. This stuff was made in 1945. Why hasn't anyone drank it by now? What's wrong with it?"

"Muggles can't speed up the fermentation process, Mort. They have to wait a long time to get the wine right."

"Oh. It's not half bad, is it."

"Nope. Quite good." Wilson wiped his chin and took another pull from the bottle. We had no cups, we needed no cups.

"It's no Fire Whiskey, but it's better than Irn Bru."

"Yeah."

We sat and drank. And drank. We opened more bottles and passed them around.

I cleared my throat. "I feel horrible."

Silence.

"I just... If someone had told me a year ago that I would explode a group of human beings into red mist, and that I would cheer it like a bloody-handed savage, well. I wouldn't have believed them. All I ever wanted was a bit of peace."

Wilson snorted. "You're a sentimental drunk. If I'd have known that, I wouldn't have given you that bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon. I'd have kept it all for myself."

Solberry giggled.

"Well, nonetheless, it's true. Don't get me wrong, it was funnny as fuck to watch them all go up. But somehow, I feel like it shouldn't have been. You know?"

Solberry shook his head. "No, I don't know. It's never a bad thing to slay your enemies. That's what they're there for." He laughed again. "I say, next, we try this trick again in the Ministry of Magic. I been there. Always a lot of crowds. Hundreds of folks, in one little location. The stone walls'll channel the blast. You toss in the explosives and lit 'em up. _Ba-BOOM_! They'll never see it coming." He laughed again. "We can easily kill a hundred, hundred fity collaborators. Like that." He snapped his fingers for emphasis.

"Where I come from, Solberry, that's called terrorism," Wilson said.

"What's that? Terrorism?"

"It's when a small group of, you know, of people, it's when they make plans to hurt and scare people. So's everybody does what they want."

"That sounds like the Dark Lord's lot."

"The parallel is not lost on me, Solberry." Wilson took a deep gulp from his bottle.

"Hey, guys," I say. I wasn't thinking before speaking. Whatever is on the inside was spilling out without permission. "Why do you do it?"

They were confused. I must not have phrased the question well.

"I mean... everyone else in the world is either trying to be a hero, trying to be a terrorizer, or being a victim. You got the Order, fighting for truth and justice and shit. You got Death Eaters killing and torturing and arresting dissidents. And you got the normal people being killed and tortured and arrested. So why are we the only ones who are terrorizing the terrorizers? Why do we do it?"

"I really must be pissed," Wilson muttered. "That came close to making sense to me. Can you rephrase it so as to not sound stupid?"

I spent about half a minute trying to think of a way of putting it. "Why are we fighting? I guess that's what I mean. What's driving you two? I mean, Wilson, you're a Mudblood gangster with the soul of a snake. Solberry, all the Aurors figured you would be out there terrorizing people with a Dark Mark on your arm. Come on, you two aren't doing this for shit and giggles, speak up. Why do you do it?"

Wilson threw his bottle half way down the darkened aisle and it shattered against the floor, spraying shards of glass and alcohol across the tiles. Had I been sober, I'd have been startled. Drunk, I merely watch all around, serene and tranquil.

"Soul of a snake," he hisses. "Oh, yes, I'm quite a bad man, ain't I? Just another thug. Just another Mudblood gone bad, yeah?" He calmly and deliberately took another bottle down from the rack and Charmed the cork off. "Let me tell you two Pureblooded wankers something. I wasn't always Undesirable #4, you know? You go back to when I graduated from Hogwarts, no one would have pegged me as a crimelord. I was Head Boy, for god's sake. I was a Beater on the Quidditch team, and everybody cheered me like a hero when I whopped that Bludger into the Ravenclaw Seeker path. We'd have lost if it weren't for me." He wasn't even speaking to us by now. He was merely airing his thoughts. "Hufflepuff hadn't won a game in three years, then I came along. People liked me. They wanted to spend time with me, be close to me. They weren't looking for profit, or power, and mercy. They just wanted me." He lifts his head and glares at us with startling ferocity. "You lot changed that. Purebloods. Arrogant pricks.

"I was right out of Hogwarts, tending bar in the Leaky Cauldron, saving up my pay till I could find a use for it. I was thinking of going into business for myself, once I figured out what I wanted to do with my life. Well, that didn't last long. Old Abraxas Malfoy- that would be Lucius's da- he owned a majority share in the place. Once he found out my parents were Muggles... I got sacked. When I protested, I got blacklisted. When I went to the Ministry to sue him, I found that there was no law on the books that deal with discrimination against Mudbloods. Even if there were, every judge in the damn building was friends with the Malfoys. The diseased old freak... Sick old bastard. God, I wanted to hurt him. When I went to interview elsewhere, no sir, no jobs available, not to a person with your background. I could never tell if they were objecting to my blood or just scared of getting on the wrong side of the Malfoys. Didn't matter."

He absent-mindedly threw his empty bottle down the aisle to join the first. The crash of splintering glass seemed to rejuvenate him. He got up and paced, while Solberry and I looked on with guarded expressions.

"The money didn't last long. I hadn't held the job for long, and the pay wasn't too generous to start with. Soon, I was staring poverty in the face. I went back to my parents' house and begged them to take me in again until I could get my feet under me. We hadn't parted on the best of terms. They had... issues with my being a wizard. I had issues with them trying to rope me away from the Wizarding world. Words had been said, curses spat and retracted... It's hard not to hate them now. If they hadn't been such miserable fucking _Muggles_, I'd still have a job and a future. But I kept my mask up. I showed penitence and regret whether I felt it or not. I got three meals a day and a roof over my head.

"My cousin Liam lived with my parents, and he had a bit of a drug problem. He couldn't afford a fix, but he was desperate for it. I fixed up a Cheering potion and sold it to him for a for a good price. It wasn't as good as heroin, he said, but it was amazing anyway. He told his friends about me. None of them understood magic, but they knew all that Robert Wilson had the best, craziest shit in town. My cauldron payed for itself and then some in the first week alone. I was making biweekly trips to Diagon Alley to pick up supplies to deal with the workload.

"Soon, I was selling Veritaserum to gangsters- once they were convinced it worked, they bought it by the gallon, for amounts of cash that would send your head spinning. I sold Blemish Remover to the teenagers in the neighbourhood. I sold Calming Draughts to junkies going through rehab. I sold Memory Potions to struggling college students. I sold Strength Potions to local athletes.

"I sold Love potions to fucking _everyone_.

"And once the Ministry found me out, I bribed like there was no tomorrow. And when local Muggle criminals tried to lean on me, I hurled lightning and thunder like like an avenging angel. An ignorant thug with a baseball bat is no match for a wand.

"Everything sort of snowballed from there. Smuggling things out of the country. Smuggling into the country. Fencing stolen goods. Next thing you know, someone is threatening to rat me out to the point where no number of Galleons will save me, so I had to choose between Azkaban and murder. You can guess what I chose. And from there I was well on my way to being the Lord of Knockturn Alley."

Wilson stopped. He drank. He spat. He sat down and laid against the smooth white wall.

"So, for fuck's sake, Brand, don't say I have the soul of a snake. I don't. All I ever wanted was profit. Don't blame me for being a crimelord 'cause it's just as much your fault as mine." And he just sat with his face set, and sipped delicately.

Solberry sniffed. "What a load of bollocks."

Wilson jerked his head up from his seat on the floor. "What?"

"Oh, dear me, pity me, I'm just a poor little Muggle-born who couldn't get a break. Pure, unadulterated bollocks."

"Oh, really."

"You're trying to make it sound like you just sort of slipped into crime. Like you don't even enjoy the violence, the power you held. Like you're just a good man with rotten luck. You're almost as big of a hypocrite as Brand."

I jerked my head up from my seat near the racks of wine bottles. "What?"

"Or, alternatively: Brand, you're almost as big of a hypocrite as Wilson."

"Fuck a long way off."

"I'm serious. Brand, ever since we've been together, you've held the two of us in contempt. Like you're a decent man who's fallen in with a bad lot, and you're trying to hold your breath to to smell the sewage on us. Like you're fundamentally _good_. You're not. I watched you threaten Greengrass. You look scared and vengeful, yes, but more than that: you looked pleased. Like you had been waiting patiently all year long for Christmas and it came early. I think you've been waiting a long time for an excuse to hurt people, and now that you're missing one digit, you have all the justification you'll ever need."

I started crying softly, silently. I don't know why, since it wasn't true. Maybe it was the wine getting to me.

"I can just see you justifying yourself to anyone that ever calls you out. 'Oh, I didn't mean to end up how I did. But I went a little crazy after they took my finger.' 'Yes, I burned that man alive, but I was consumed with anger, you see.' " He leaned in towards me slightly for emphasis. " 'It's alright for me to be a murderer, because I have an excuse now.' "

"Shut up, Solberry," I whispered. I turned away slightly so he wouldn't see me draw out my wand.

"The three of us, we're all alike. Three kindred souls. The only reason we haven't killed each other yet is because it would be like killing ourselves. No one else we've ever met has understood us. No one else we know could stomach the kind of people we have always been."

Solberry slid down the wall to join Wilson and me on the floor.

"I know that you two think I'm evil. Wilson, you reckon I'm a bloody-minded little Death Taster. Brand, you see me as one step above being a Bellatrix LeStrange, or a Fenrir, or a Grindelwald. But the only difference between me and you is that I'm willing to admit what I want out of life."

And silence reigned. I don't know how long we sat there, in the light of our wands, avoiding each others' eyes and clutching our bottles to our laps.

From my lips came these words, unplanned and uncensored:

"I want to go home. I don't want to be hurt anymore."

"Yeah," said Solberry. "But since that's not an option, we all know what Plan B is, don't we?"


End file.
